


Truly Ineffable

by Bookwormgal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agnes Nutter Is A Matchmaker, Angel & Demon Interactions, Angel & Demon Relationships Defy Easy Labels, Angels, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Canon - TV, Death, Demons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angels, Flaming Sword, Footnotes, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Description of Injuries, Hastur Wants Revenge, Literal Deus ex Machina, Love, Marriage Proposal, Metaphysical Metaphors, Miracles, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Prophecies, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Redemption, Rescue, Revenge, Serious Injuries, Sword Fighting, Temporary Character Death, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal
Summary: Stress can come out in the most unfortunate ways and an argument causes nearly a month of separation. Not that long for an angel or demon who have walked the Earth for six thousand years, but enough is enough. But when Crowley saunters back into the bookshop, his angel isn't there.But the bookshop wasn't quite empty either. And She has a favor to ask of him. And when he asks why he would do anything that She asks of him, She merely tells him that Aziraphale needs his help....Well, when you put it that way, how could he possibly say no?





	1. The Request

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, over a decade ago, I discovered a charming book co-written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. A lovely tale of angels, demons, the apocalypse, and humanity, all of which was spun with a certain flavor of humor and ton of footnotes. I adored it and recommended the book to anyone that I could.
> 
> And now there is a miniseries version of that tale, one that adapts the story quite well and added even more. I enjoyed every moment of it. And while I was able to resist trying to write fanfic for “Good Omens” in the past, I could not escape its mental hold this time.
> 
> I will admit that this fic was somewhat inspired by another fic that I read for this fandom several years ago ([“A Spark of Goodness”](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7085070/1/A-Spark-of-Goodness) by Viking Eggplant). But while that one was set within book canon, this one will be based more on the miniseries (though with a few hints of the book sprinkled in for flavor).
> 
> Since I am not Neil Gaiman nor Terry Pratchett (who we all miss), I do not own these characters, these settings, or almost anything else. I’m just having a little fun with them.

As someone who foresaw several centuries’ worth of events, up to and including the near apocalypse, Agnes Nutter was unsurprised that her descendant would choose to burn the second set of prophecies without reading them. Annoyed at the destruction of that much parchment, not exactly a cheap investment during her lifetime, but unsurprised. And she also foresaw that someday Anathema would regret her rash actions. If not for her sake, then at least for her future children.

Which was why, when Newton Pulsifer was asked by this girlfriend to move a few things up to the Jasmine Cottage’s attic and tripped over an untied shoelace, the false bottom of a certain box tumbled free and thick parchment scattered across the floor. And it was why the first sheet that he picked up read thusly:

_Mr. Pulsifer, ye poor excuse for a witchfinder and nosy boy named for a lizzard, do not share these writings yet. My girl art not yet willing to listen and I do not wish to write these out thrice. Only when she will not burn my worke can thou speak of what thou hadst found this day. In exchange for thy silence, thou may choose prophecies by chance and readeth these secrets. Not of thy fate nor that of thy love, but of others that thou knowst. Enough to sate thy curiosity until my Anathema changes her mind. And if there be any hope for ye, thou may yet learn enough to keep thy noggin from being as empty as that of thine ancestor._

While Newt wanted to tell Anathema what he found, to tell her about the surviving prophecies that Agnes hid away since all the research that he’d done [1] warned that communication was the key to a successful relationship, his curiosity couldn’t be ignored. And if Agnes was right, Anathema would want her guidance again someday.

He also knew that Agnes was stated to always be right. Which meant going against her predictions was a waste of time and he should just listen.

Newt came to a compromise with his conflicting emotions on the topic. He hid the stack of parchment away, placing them in a box filled with random computer parts that he’d fried in a variety of improbably ways. He didn’t read through the pages instantly to search for hints about future technology. Instead, Newt limited himself to randomly selecting a single prophecy once a week. And he promised himself that at the first hint that Anathema missed those prophecies, Newt planned to tell her.

After the first couple months of reading short prophecies that, as far as Newt could understand, seemed to describe what former Witchfinder Shadwell and Madame Tracy were doing,[2] he found the first hints of something new.

_After demon and angel stood together against all, Above and Below, and escaped harm through their wits, all seemed peaceful and right. But a mistake shalle lead to wordes most harsh and those who art closest can cause the deepest wounds. The angel of books shalle speak in haste what he dost not mean and lo the Serpent would guard hym against true harm, he should learn to watch his forked tongue with greater care. Stubborn fools, the lot of themme. For both art their own worst enemy and riskes losing more than they know._

 

* * *

 

The people who spent much time in this particular neighborhood had long since learned caution when it came to the streets. A form of natural selection over the last few decades especially resulted in those who lived and worked there having exceptional hearing when it came to detecting a certain make of car engine or Queen’s music. They knew that the instant that they heard the tell-tale warning, they needed to dive for the sidewalks before the infamous black Bentley streaked past at dangerous speeds. No one was ever hit by the automobile, something that most of the locals considered to be a minor miracle.[3] But they all worried that one day the narrow misses would finally result in someone splattering across the hood.

As if the driver would allow the mess.

Regardless, no one was particularly surprised when a flash of black raced by, “Don’t Stop Me Now” blaring out as a warning of his passage. The only reason that it was even slightly noteworthy was that the streets had been safe for almost a month. But other than shaking a fist at the vehicle, they mostly shrugged it off and went on with their day.

Behind the wheel of the Bentley, sunglasses hiding his frustrated expression from anyone who might catch a glimpse through the windshield while diving for safety, sat something inhuman. Oh, he was man-shaped most of the time, but he was no more a man than he was a human. A demon raced through the streets of Soho. One whose patience had run out and who planned to drag that _blessed_ angel out of his bookshop and make him listen.

This wasn’t the first disagreement that Aziraphale ever had with Crowley. Not even close. Even if they’d been surprisingly cordial from the beginning, they’d been enemies for a long time before the Arrangement was finalized. It took time to figure out where the lines were and which ones not cross. None of the fights ended in discorporation, but occasionally someone was left licking their wounds afterwards. Later arguments remained verbal, but not necessarily painless.

The argument in 1862 was particularly unpleasant. But then, they’d already been on edge before Crowley asked for holy water and, in hindsight, it was easier for him to understand the angel’s concerns. The close call a few days before that conversation shook them both out of their complacency and unnerved them enough that the request would have sounded really bad.

They’d gotten sloppy during that century. Another demon managed to glimpse him and Aziraphale together, _not_ actively trying to discorporate or even hindering each other. And despite a lack of imagination, the other demon managed to piece enough clues together to figure out that something wasn’t right. The demon tracked Crowley down and cornered him in a library. And his very detailed threats made it quite clear what he expected to happen to Crowley once he dragged the Serpent back and told everyone: very public and very painful torture. But before Crowley could figure out a way to slither out of it and escape, his luck somehow worsened further and a random angel visiting the city found them. The distinctive auras of two demons not even bothering to hide their presence caught her attention and, her current orders including the phrase “rooting out evil wherever she found it,” she charged into their corner of the library with her celestial blade in hand.[4] She managed to slaughter the other demon and nearly did the same to Crowley before Aziraphale innocently stumbled onto the scene. Everyone froze briefly at the unexpected interruption, but Crowley’s survival instinct meant that he recovered first and used the distraction to discorporate his opponent by toppling a bookshelf on her head.

The entire experience unsettled Aziraphale and Crowley in different ways. And while Crowley saw the close shave as a wakeup call to take precautions and to come up with a last resort, his request for a dangerous substance provoked a different reaction from the angel. One more horrified. Especially after finding Crowley with a sword radiating holiness against his throat and realizing how close he came to permanently losing the one person that had been with him since the beginning. Aziraphale saw it as Crowley wanting an escape and believing that, should the worst happen, the only assistance that the angel would provide would be a swift annihilation. And after so many years of not killing anyone, Aziraphale could not bear to hand Crowley the tools for his own self-destruction. He could not bear the guilt of being the one responsible for that. The resulting argument drove them apart for a little less than a century.[6] It was one of their longest breaks between their encounters for the last thousand years.

And while they’d spent a greater amount of time together during the eleven years leading up to Armaged-don’t,[7] the two of them only stopped pretending to be technically enemies after everything settled down and the forces of Heaven and Hell were intimidated into leaving them alone. The next few months were peaceful as they could finally enjoy each other’s company without the threat of discovery or punishment. It seemed perfect. But nothing perfect could last forever and the habits of six thousand years weren’t easily broken.

Crowley could reluctantly admit that perhaps tempting the small gaggle of nerdy bookworm teenagers, who actually navigated the complicated shop hours in order to browse the shelves without purchasing anything,[8] into indulging in some minor teenage rebellion was a bad idea. He hardly even noticed what he was doing at the time. The teenagers were just in front of him and habit took over. It was practically child’s play and he barely needed to try. And how was he supposed to predict that they would break in and steal several of the angel’s first edition works by Oscar Wilde?

Even getting them back almost instantly[9] didn’t prevent the resulting argument. Aziraphale couldn’t understand why Crowley would do such a thing when his bosses were ignoring them anyway, when there was no _need_ to perform such wiles. And even worse, he could not understand why Crowley would target people that the angel was fond of. Young humans that enjoyed books and one of them was even talking about ambitions to be a _writer_. And then Crowley managed to mess it up. Unlike in the past, when it was simply part of their respective duties and to be expected, Aziraphale took the whole thing badly. It felt more _personal_. Like it mattered more than back when they still had to keep up appearances and some slight distance. And when Aziraphale’s words came out harsher than he intended and something sharp that vaguely resembled guilt and hurt stabbed at the demon, Crowley ended up lashing out worse before he realized what he was saying.

A cornered snake and all that.

_“Honestly, I don’t know why you even bothered with this ‘our side’ nonsense if you’re still helping out your side like that. I trusted you.”_

_“…Did you? Couldn’t tell, angel. You seemed pretty set on keeping secrets until you were discorporated. Of course, shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing good ever came from trusting a demon.”_

Crowley regretted the entire thing the moment he stormed out, but crushed it under a mountain of denial. Demons had a knack for lying. Even to themselves. He told himself that Aziraphale would get over it in no time. He told himself that the hurt expression that the angel quickly hid behind a stiff upper lip didn’t matter. He told himself that it would be fine. They just needed some space to cool down for a day or two and then things would go back to normal. Even though it was their first fight since the Almost-Apocalypse, he told himself that it didn’t matter.

But the angel had been avoiding him since that day. Aziraphale wouldn’t answer or return his phone calls. He didn’t go feed the ducks. And, when Crowley asked around, his favorite sushi restaurant denied seeing him either.

Immortal beings could theoretically hold grudges for ages if they wanted. They certainly had the time for it. Certain demons had developed it into an art form. But after the last few years, Crowley was used to seeing Aziraphale on a regular basis and he refused to let everything unravel apart in front of him because of one stupid mistake.

Outside of Not-Quite-The-End-of-Times types of events, Crowley was not one to apologize. No demon really was. Not unless it was more along the lines of “begging for mercy” types of apologizing. Which was why Crowley wasn’t actually driving over to apologize to Aziraphale. But after six thousand years, he knew that there were other ways to get around the angel’s stubbornness and tempt his way back into his presence.

The Bentley screeched to a halt in front of the bookshop and Crowley climbed out. He wouldn’t leave without getting Aziraphale to talk to him. They would get past this nonsense.

Crowley sauntered towards the front door, a unique and distinctive gait. Almost swaying with his movements. His entire body shifted in a serpentine fashion, as if legs were a new trend that he was giving a test run and he was used to an older form of locomotion. But he’d always thought that his particular strut looked stylish, like his clothes and his car.

He opened the door to the bookshop. It didn’t matter that the business was probably closed for the day and locked up. Locks were for people with no imagination or supernatural powers. Besides, the door was never locked against Crowley, regardless of the hour. He’d been welcomed there since Aziraphale opened the place.

“Angel?” he called.

Crowley listened carefully, but he heard nothing in response. Not an annoyed voice. Not shuffling papers or the sounds of books being set down. Not creaking floorboards. The entire building remained dead silent. Even walking further into the bookshop offered no clues. But, not willing to give up quite that easily, Crowley stretched out his senses to see what else he could find.

All living things possessed an aura, though they tended to be brighter and more distinct in sentient species and barely present in things like bacteria. In some ways, auras were like a jacket. That is, if a jacket was a form of energy that radiated off them, was influenced by emotions and various forms of power, and was undetectable by most beings who weren’t witches, angels, demons, or cats. So not really much like a jacket at all, but it was a decent metaphor as long as you didn’t look too closely.[10] And just as you could deduce a few facts about a person from the color, style, and condition of the jacket that they wore, an aura could reveal information about someone’s state.

And what lay beneath the surface, the person’s soul or essence, remained just as unique. Like a sweater that matched the jacket. Everyone had such a metaphysical sweater, but everyone’s essence was slightly different. There were similarities that made it possible to recognize a human, demon, or angel by their aura or their essence, but they were still individualized sweaters.

Some were cozy and soft homemade sweaters, the kind hand-knit by sweet grandmothers with love in every stitch. Others were practical sweater created solely to keep out the cold and damp, the color and pattern almost boring. Some were ordinary sweaters manufactured in a huge factory by a unionized labor force currently in talks with the owners about improved dental plans for the workers. And others were oversized colorful monstrosities that could have only been designed by someone with no fashion sense. Other metaphorical sweaters were more similar to ugly holiday sweaters that were bought by family members who had no other ideas on what to give as gifts to estranged relatives. And then there were some which were more like the hot, itchy, and uncomfortable sweaters that almost seem vindictive towards the person wearing them.

And while Aziraphale and Crowley had recently discovered that it was technically possible to temporarily exchange jackets to disguise auras, as long as no one looked closely enough, their sweaters of essence were impossible to swap. As long as someone exists, their sweater will remain with them, occasionally picking up lint or tears or patches.

And just like all metaphors, explaining metaphysical concepts by comparing them to articles of clothing can lead to absurd and distracting tangents.

Detecting auras was a rare talent among humans, but a universal one among angels and demons. Their senses lay outside the normal human ranges. Powerful emotions, strong sources of holiness or evil, and similar forces were easy for the occult and ethereal to notice. Any angel or demon who wanted to keep a low profile or exercise any form of stealth learned to conceal their auras as much as possible or they might get discorporated by the first unfriendly face that finds them.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley learned the skill long ago to avoid trouble from less agreeable angels and demons. Just because they were the ones on permanent assignment on Earth during the past six thousand years didn’t mean they were the only ones who wandered around occasionally. One of the advantages of spending so much time on Earth was that it gave them plenty of opportunities to practice. If they concentrated on hiding their presence, no one would be able to detect their auras unless they were particularly close or powerful. But most of the time, they weren’t actively hiding their activities anyway. It wasn’t worth the effort unless they had a good reason.

And everyone interpreted how they sensed auras differently. Anathema Device saw auras as colors surrounding and radiating off of people. Other beings might interpret them as closer to a sound or a feeling. But Crowley in many ways was still the Serpent that he started his time on Earth as. While he sensed auras over vast distances as something akin to vibrations, closer ones always seemed more like scents. And after six thousand years, Crowley knew exactly what Aziraphale smelled like.

He breathed deeply, especially for a being who didn’t technically need to breathe to survive. And if something briefly darted out of his mouth, it certainly wasn’t a _human_ tongue. But while the familiar scent filled the bookshop, it was merely the faint angelic influence that was left behind by a space being occupied by Aziraphale for so long. Hints of his power lingered, but not the angel himself. He was not in the building nor the surrounding neighborhood. Crowley reached out further, forcefully ignoring everything else he sensed that wasn’t his friend.

He wasn’t in London.

He wasn’t in England.

Gone.

For a brief moment, Crowley could almost smell the smoke, taste the ash and soot in his mouth, and feel the rolling heat pressing on him from all directions. He stumbled towards the back room while “ _I can’t find you_ ” echoed in his head and tried to squeeze past his tightening throat.

Crowley reached further still, straining the limits of his senses. No matter how much his mind tried to return to that awful moment, running out of time and fully convinced that Heaven or Hell must have destroyed Aziraphale just as Crowley barely escaped such a fate himself, he forced himself to believe that history wasn’t repeating. They were supposed to leave the two of them alone. Which meant he wasn’t gone. The angel must be somewhere. And—

 _There_.

On the very edge of his awareness and as he began nursing the start of a headache, Crowley finally found the angel’s aura. Even at a distance, he would always recognize Aziraphale. There was a reason that he could track down the angel across the ages. He could always find his presence on Earth and he would always recognize him.

His aura felt like… it smelled like… Aged books. Cocoa. Old and well-maintained clothes. Warm, soft light. General love and affection. A smidge of selfishness and manipulativeness, just enough to be interesting without sliding into dangerous territory. Righteousness that only crossed into self-righteousness when he was uncertain and trying to compensate. Softness and kindness wrapped around a strong and unbreakable core. And the tell-tale celestial brightness of the holiness and grace that all angels shared, but somehow gentler in comparison to the others; it lacked the harshness or intensity to make it uncomfortable.

Some of the tension melted from the demon. Aziraphale. Far away, but still on Earth. He couldn’t make out anything else, but even that much reassurance helped.

Then he spotted a note on the desk. One that would have spared him a little stress if he’d seen it sooner.

_Mr. Anthony J Crowley,_

_I am heading out of the country for a few months on business. Unofficial business. I feel that I have neglected certain responsibilities now that our respective superiors have ceased communication. Since you have continued with your previous duties, it seemed prudent to make up for lost time with some of my own._

_I do apologize for how we last parted. I did not intend to say such hurtful things and I did not mean them. Such behavior was most unbecoming. And when I return, I will give you a proper apology._

_Mr. A. Z. Fell_

The names were chosen in case someone else discovered the note, as was the especially stuffy phrasing, but the message was clear enough. Out of guilt for their argument and to balance whatever minor acts of evil that Crowley might have provoked, Aziraphale had run off to spread some good. Guilt always made him overcompensate. Because even if he was no longer in good standing with Heaven and the other angels and even if he was no longer on their side, Aziraphale still tried to do the right thing.[11]

The entire thing was so utterly _Aziraphale_.

Crowley was mildly annoyed by his absence, but he did his best to look on the bright side. At least he wasn’t wandering into a violent revolution because he was feeling peckish. Or trying to play secret agent spy during a war. And Aziraphale wanted to get past this entire mess just like Crowley did.

The sound of the door opening drew him out of his thoughts. He must have left the door unlocked and the closed sign wasn’t doing its job of keeping people away. That wasn’t going to work at all. The whole argument sparked off because someone messed with the angel’s books. Crowley could at least chase off anyone trying to bother them now.

Sauntering back towards the front of the bookshop, he called, “If you’re too illiterate to read the word ‘closed,’ you don’t need to buy anything in here. Get out.”

Turning away from the closest shelf, She smiled serenely and said, “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Shock, awe, and absolute terror sent Crowley scrambling backwards with a yelp until he hit one of the structural columns. His legs nearly collapsed under him, as if he shouldn’t be standing in Her presence.[12] Crowley lost his sunglasses somewhere in his frantic attempt to retreat, but he barely noticed. Every instinct in him screamed at Crowley that he was about to be wiped from existence.

Crowley never expected to be in Her[13] presence ever again.

Her presence within the bookshop occupied at least three overlapping layers of reality. On the surface level, the one that almost anyone could witness, She looked human. Or rather, She appeared as all of humanity. She made humans in Her image, after all. Every human that had lived or ever would live seemed to overlap until the resulting face was ambiguous in age, gender, and ethnicity. If Crowley could have managed to focus enough to pick out individuals from the entirety, he might have seen people that he recognized from his long lifespan. Though he suspected that attempting to look that closely might make his head explode.

On a second level, She had manifested as a column of holy light that should have already been dissolving the demon. While She was technically everywhere and aware at all times, She was currently somewhat more present in the bookshop than She was in other places. And that proximity should have been too much. Crowley could barely look at Her directly without feeling half-blinded by Her. But he also knew that She was doing something to keep him from spontaneously ending up like Ligur in Her holy presence. He just couldn’t understand _why_.

 The third level… No, Crowley didn’t dare look. Not even most angels could look that closely at Her. It would be too much.

“Do not be afraid,” She said gently. “You will not be harmed in my presence here.”

Crowley’s carefully chosen and articulate response?

“ _Ngk_.”

“You came here for Aziraphale,” She continued.

“Are…” Crowley swallowed briefly, his body tense and strained as he remained pressed against the column. “Are you here for him? You _can’t_. Ssstay away from him.” The terrified whisper slipped into a slight hiss, the demon unable to even think about what he was doing and yet unable to stop himself. “Don’t… He doesn’t deserve to Fall. It’s my fault. Not his.”

Smiling kindly, She said, “I am not here to punish Aziraphale. He is not here. I am here for you.”

“ _Ngk_.”

By that point, Crowley was pressing himself so tightly against the pillar that his back had almost fused with it. The last time that She paid direct attention to Crowley was when Eve pointed to the serpent and said that he convinced her to try the forbidden fruit. And the time before that, he was surrounded by others as She frowned at them, stripping the former angels of their names and Her grace as they Fell.

For a demon, having Her pay direct attention was absolutely terrifying.

“You… didn’t have to go to the trouble. I’m fine,” mumbled Crowley, trying not to look too closely at her.

“But after you spent so much time speaking to Me, do you not wish to have a chance for a response?”

Crowley shook his head, but he did manage to pry himself off the pillar. Everything seemed to be taking on a surreal feeling. He and Aziraphale managed to avoid Nope-ageddon and now She has stopped by to chat with a demon. If She wasn’t there to smite him, Crowley had no idea what was going on.

“What do you want from me?” asked Crowley.

“I have something to ask of you. A favor, if you will.”

When She gestured towards one of the tables, Crowley noticed a long shape wrapped in white cloth. One moment, there was nothing other than displayed books. And the next moment, it had always been there.

“I would like to ask for you to take this to Aziraphale,” She continued.

And somehow that managed to get past the fear and awe to something resembling anger, though it had origins in ancient pain and confused frustration. Crowley straightened and even took a step towards Her.

“Oh, really? Not a word or a single sign that You notice me for six thousand years and now You are here with a delivery job? Why should I? And if You want Aziraphale to have whatever it is, why don’t You give it to him directly instead of handing it to me? Or even have Gabriel do it? He’s supposed to be Your preferred messenger _and_ he still works for You. You have millions of angels who obey You without question. Why would You ask me?”

For a moment after he spoke, Crowley remained just as frustrated and angry as he was during his short rant. Then he realized exactly what he’d done. What he’d said. And to _who_. And his face turned almost gray.

It was one thing to rant and plead at someone that you are fairly certain was ignoring your existence. It was another to do the same thing right in front of Her.

God’s eternal love and Her willingness to forgive humanity for their sins sounded nice enough, but those traits were balanced by God’s judgment and wrath. And that wrath had been there since the beginning and the forgiveness had only really taken priority in the last couple thousand years. Floods to wash away the sinners. Plagues that ended with the first-borns killed to force a pharaoh into obeying a command. Crowley remembered. And that forgiveness and unconditional love was only ever meant for humans.

Demons were unforgivable by definition.

“Still asking questions,” She said. “Your curiosity is never satisfied, even after so long and after it has caused you so much trouble. Something that you’ve had in common with humanity even from the start.”

Cringing slightly, Crowley said, “Sssorry. I’ll stop talking. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“Calm yourself, Crowley.[14] I did not mean it as admonishment. Merely an observation. But as for why you should do as I ask of you, I will give you a simple reason. Aziraphale needs your help.”

Hearing those four words triggered something in the demon. Something powerful and undeniable. He knew what it was. He’d experienced it more times than he could remember. It was what made Crowley walk across consecrated ground and into a church. It was what made him charge into a burning bookshop. Without a word or conscious thought, the decision was already made.

“I could command Gabriel or one of the others to bring this to Aziraphale, but they are upset about recent events and humans are not the only ones who can misuse My words to suit their purposes. He is not beyond following _creative_ interpretations. And your presence by his side may be needed equally as much as My gift.”

For a brief moment, the completely-inappropriate thought crossed Crowley’s mind that perhaps Her ineffable plan wasn’t quite some form of impossibly elaborate game of Poker with blank cards and unknown rules. Maybe it was more like an extreme version of Dungeon and Dragons where She was the dungeon master and Her planned campaign accounted for different choices from the other players and their free will, allowing for multiple routes towards the same outcome, but without drastically altering the eventual course of the game.[15] But Crowley could only hold onto that train of thought briefly before more important matters reclaimed his focus.

“And what happens if I _don’t_ agree?” asked Crowley, as if there was a single chance that he would decline. “What happens then?”

“To you? Nothing. I will accept your answer and leave you in the same state that I found you, no better and no worse than before,” She said with a neutral expression. “As for what will happen to Aziraphale… Perhaps he will be fine. Or perhaps not.”

She knew what would happen. He knew that She knew. But he also knew that She would not tell him any more than She already had about what was happening with Aziraphale. It was up to him to make a choice.

Crowley closed his eyes briefly, clenching his fists at his sides. He took a few deep breaths. Then he opened his eyes, reached down to reclaim his sunglasses, and slid his shades back into place.

“Fine. Tell me what it is and where I’m going. Not like I have anything better planned for this afternoon anyway,” he said as casually as possible.

As an answer, She carefully pulled back the white cloth and exposed a familiar short sword. There were no visible flames, but the holiness radiated off the blessed weapon in a way that made Crowley’s skin crawl. He knew that touching the sword, even brushing against the metal, would burn at a demon’s essence. Not as fast or intensely as holy water, but bad enough. Prolonged exposure or being seriously injured with it would be deadly. Crowley had seen it with other blessed swords, but never with Aziraphale’s old sword.

“The cloth will shield you from the holiness of the blade, but you know the dangers that it poses to those who Fell. There are risks if you touch it without that protection. Keep those consequences in mind.”

Swallowing nervously, Crowley said, “Got it. Don’t touch. Demons and holy objects don’t mix.”

“As for where to take the gift, you know where to go,” She said.

And suddenly, Crowley did. The knowledge was placed in his mind. Hell used to do the same thing occasionally, the information slithering into his mind. Cold and unsettling. They did it when they explained what to do with the Anti-Christ. This wasn’t as bad. But what She shared wasn’t exactly encouraging news.

At least Aziraphale wasn’t in Ireland though. Even after all this time, Crowley was still annoyed with Patrick.[16]

“That’s pretty far,” he said. “How fast does he need it? Getting a seat on a plane anywhere close to there will still take time.[17] Does he have that kind of time?”

Rather than answering further, She smiled mysteriously at Crowley. Then She was no longer standing there. Crowley stumbled and fell to the ground as something washed over him. A warm, bright, and terrifyingly overwhelming feeling that he couldn’t completely describe and yet instantly recognized even after so long without it.

Her grace.

And then the sensation was gone. Just like She was. Crowley shivered, feeling just as hollow and empty as the first time that She stripped him and the others of Her grace. Part of him ached in a way that he hadn’t noticed in thousands of years, missing something that he could never get back.

Then Crowley pushed himself back to his feet and he carefully picked up the wrapped sword. Aziraphale needed help. And after so many years, keeping the angel out of trouble was a hard habit to break. If Aziraphale needed his flaming sword hand-delivered, then he would get it to him.

On the crossroad outside the bookstore, all the humans present suddenly found themselves thoroughly distracted. Mobile phones started ringing, shoelaces came loose to trip people up, and airbags deployed right in drivers’ faces. No one saw the red-haired figure step out the door, unfurl a pair of black wings, and launch himself into the sky.

 

* * *

 

_The Serpent shalle fly on winges raven black while the Toad seeks out revenge. Not against the one that he doth hate most. The Toad desires to make another pay for the Serpent’s trick. An angel who walks into Hell with a face not hys own._

 

* * *

 

Hastur did not have much creativity or imagination.[18] He was a simple demon with simple desires. He wanted to bring about the Apocalypse so that they could defeat Heaven’s forces and he wanted Crowley to suffer a slow and agonizing demise. Unfortunately, the Anti-Christ’s rebellion derailed the first goal. And due to the failed trial and Hell’s new standing orders not to seek out Crowley for revenge, the second goal was equally beyond his reach.

And Hastur wasn’t even certain how Crowley _could_ be destroyed anymore. Even without orders standing in his way, the demon remained uncertain how it would be possible. The memory of Crowley lounging casually in holy water would stay with him for the rest of his existence. It was utterly unnatural and unnerving to witness.

But Hastur’s lack of imagination worked in his favor. He didn’t have the capacity to imagine someone being invulnerable to everything. As far as he was concerned, anyone could be hurt, maimed, tortured, and then ultimately destroyed if he tried hard enough. Only the knowledge of what Hell would do as punishment for disobedience kept him from tracking Crowley down and experimenting until he found something that worked against the serpent. Something _painful_.

Ligur and Hastur were never friends. Demons didn’t form friendships.[19] Hell wasn’t an environment that fostered that type of trust and bonding. It was a bit too cut-throat for that. Often literally. But they were lurking partners and Hastur had been relatively certain that Ligur wouldn’t stab him in the back without a good reason. That was as close as demons typically got to friendship. And Crowley doused Ligur in holy water like a coward and Hastur wanted some form of revenge for it.

But as much as Hastur might want to hunt Crowley down and eviscerate the serpent, he wasn’t dumb enough to go directly against Hell’s orders. Demons might be the original rebels and encourage rebellion in general, but those in charge tended come down on certain specific examples rather heavily. Disobedience was not tolerated. He couldn’t go after Crowley.

So Hastur devised an alternative sinister plot. He was an old-school demon and it was an old-school form of revenge. Hammurabi Code type of old-school. An eye for an eye. And since Crowley eliminated Hastur’s lurking partner… Well, Hell’s orders never mentioned leaving a certain angel alone.

Hastur waited and watched, biding his time. He kept his distance until the angel left his bookshop and left the damp island, heading east. And Crowley didn’t follow. An opportunity was presenting itself. He knew what he needed to do.

He collected his cursed blade, an ancient relic that Hastur received thousands of years ago. Forged in hellfire and glowing with darkness,[20] the thick and jagged sword was one worthy of a Duke of Hell. Sharp enough to plunge through and scorch an angel’s essence, but also designed to shred and tear when Hastur ripped it back out. It was a fun weapon that he didn’t have an excuse to use often enough.

Hastur wanted to wield his evil-looking, hellfire-forged blade during the Apocalypse. But with the Anti-Christ refusing to cooperate and the end of the world taking a raincheck for the foreseeable future, skewering Crowley’s angel with the cursed weapon would be a decent consolation prize.

He wasn’t creative or imaginative. But revenge didn’t always require either. Sometimes it was straightforward and traditional, both qualities that Hastur excelled at. With the proper weapon and stalking his target carefully, he simply had to seize his moment.

* * *

 

1 By reading the types of women’s magazines typically found in waiting rooms all across the world, the issues generally at least a decade old and all the quizzes already completed in pen.  [ ↑ ]

2 Which provided more information about their private lives than Newt ever wanted to know about and now wished that he could forget. Agnes didn’t spare the details and he could have lived his whole life quite happily without certain imagery scorched into his brain. [ ↑ ]

3 They weren’t completely wrong. [ ↑ ]

4 Blessed and cursed blades were the weapons of choice, especially in the early days, for angels and demons respectively. Mostly such weapons came in the form of swords, but there were a few knives, axes, and, in one case, ninja throwing stars. If an angel or demon’s current assignment held the possibility of dispatching the enemy, it was prudent to have a weapon that could affect their essence and not just their corporeal form. Sometimes both sides would provide humans with such weapons as well if they thought it might provide their side with an advantage.[5] The biggest issue with destroying the enemy with a blessed or cursed weapon was that it tended to leave the corporeal body behind after destroying the demon or angel’s essence. That made clean up a bit trickier since you are left with a body with stab wounds, but lugging around a bucket of holy water as a method of attack lacked a certain amount of dignity. [ ↑ ]

5 As a side note, Aziraphale briefly had a blessed blade of his own, but somehow managed to “misplace” his flaming sword several thousand years ago and never actually used it against any demons. And Crowley’s side never entrusted him with a weapon because the majority of them were hoping that the smug serpent would get himself destroyed one day. [ ↑ ]

6 Most of which Crowley spent sleeping. His excuse was that sloth was a sin and that it had nothing to do with avoidance and emotions. [ ↑ ]

7 They had been kicking around a variety of names for the event, with varying levels of stupidity. Alcohol may have been involved in the creation of some of them. [ ↑ ]

8 Aziraphale’s favorite type of customers. [ ↑ ]

9 The young thieves ending up with a swift change of heart that led to them volunteering at a variety of charities across London. [ ↑ ]

10 When Aziraphale and Crowley disguised themselves as each other, they did more than just alter their faces; most angels and demons might not have much imagination or creativity, but they would notice when their target didn’t seem quite as angelic or demonic as they expected. To complete the effect, they wrapped one another in each other’s power to mask their auras and to partially shield the other from the effects of being dragged into some rather hostile environments. Like shrugging on someone else’s jacket to hide what they wore beneath. And no, neither of them knew for certain that they would be able to do it until they tried, but the reassurance of a prophecy and the imminent threat of permanent destruction can do amazing things when it comes to motivating someone. [ ↑ ]

11 Which may not necessarily line up with what Gabriel and the others might consider right, but it was closer to what other people might consider good and decent. [ ↑ ]

12 Crawling on his belly felt more appropriate. [ ↑ ]

13 Human labels and pronouns didn’t exactly work when it came to beings like angels and demons, let alone God. They weren’t humans and weren’t bound by human understandings of sex and gender. None of the possible pronouns were exactly accurate and all of them were accurate. Some angels and demons might develop a slight preference, but they couldn’t truly be defined by the concepts. [ ↑ ]

14 He felt relieved that She didn’t use his original name, the one taken from him when he Fell. If he ever heard Her spake that name again, Crowley feared something in him would break irreversibly. But he didn’t realize that She would not do that because his original angelic name no longer fit. It did not define who he was now. The proper way to address him would be using the name that he chose for himself and no other. [ ↑ ]

15 Despite the commendation that Crowley received and the accusations that the game faced starting in the 1980s about it encouraging satanic worship, witchcraft, and murder, he had nothing to do with Dungeons and Dragons and the closest thing to evil about it was that it provided another excuse for bullies to target nerdy kids. Not that they really needed an excuse. [ ↑ ]

16 And Crowley still maintained that man now referred to as Saint Patrick overreacted severely. He was only annoyed with Crowley. That didn’t mean he had to drive _all_ the snakes out of Ireland. [ ↑ ]

17 Not to mention that getting a sword onboard wasn’t exactly easy, even with liberal use of demonic miracles. [ ↑ ]

18 Most demons didn’t. With one noticeable exception. [ ↑ ]

19 With one noticeable exception. [ ↑ ]

20 Not an oxymoron. Angels and demons could see forms of light beyond what humans could see or detect with their technologies so far. The proper name for it was “infra-black.” The one way that humans could observe it was under certain conditions. Namely, selecting a sturdy brick wall and, with their head lowered, charging straight for it at ramming speed. The color that flashes in bursts behind their eyes, behind the pain, and right before death, is infra-black. [ ↑ ]


	2. The Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your support of the first chapter of this fic. Hopefully you’ll enjoy the story as things continue.

_The lone angel, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, shalle perform good workes among destruction. Far from hys home, both Above and hys shoppe of bookes, he seeks atonement for his lack of trust. Not a warrior in heart, hys sword of fire in another’s hand, the angel will not be prepared for a demon to attack hym as the sun sets. Nor when a demon drops from the sky._

Newt stared at the randomly selected prophecy. He had hoped that reading one would help distract him from his worries about Anathema’s mother coming to visit in a few weeks[21] and it technically worked. But now he was worrying about the prophecy instead.

He couldn’t help wondering when these particular events were meant to happen. It was all relative. They were all part of Agnes’s future and he knew that they were set sometime after the near apocalypse, but were they his past, present, or future.

Could he do anything about what he was reading?

After the close brush with the Apocalypse, they managed to clarify a few things and clear up Newt’s mountain of confusion. Witches, the Four Horsemen, the local gaggle of children that included the former Anti-Christ,[22] and even a brief encounter with aliens were all shocking and overwhelming for the poor man when he encountered them. Anathema was raised with the idea that these things were real by reading the book of prophecies almost constantly. Newt was dumped into the deep end of the supernatural. But he was doing his best to catch up.

And he’d done a fairly good job at it. Enough to figure out that the two odd people from the airbase, the blond bookshop owner that kept coming for tea or lemonade to discuss books with Anathema and the red-hair man with the old-fashioned car and who constantly wore sunglasses, weren’t human. He started by trying to be subtle as he asked his questions, but they didn’t even bother hiding the truth when it was obvious that Newt and Anathema already knew too much. Finding out that they were respectively the angel that guarded the garden of Eden and the demonic serpent that coaxed Eve into trying the forbidden fruit certainly made him pause. But as unnerving that it was initially to spend much time around an actual angel and a demon with yellow eyes, it didn’t take long to figure out that they weren’t that scary most of the time. Newt would almost claim that he liked them if he wasn’t a little intimidated by the pair.

And while he wasn’t a professional descendant with years of experience at deciphering Agnes Nutter’s prophecies, Newt could figure out enough to realize that the “Guardian of the Eastern Gate” referred to Aziraphale and his old job of guarding Eden. That meant that at some point after the failed Apocalypse, Aziraphale would be attacked by a demon.

Newt quietly debated with himself as he stared at the parchment, trying to decide if he should warn the angel. It could happen tomorrow. But it could have also happened in the past few months since then. Or it might happen in a thousand years. And the prophecy claimed that the angel was unprepared for what the prophecy described, which Newt took to mean that he was not meant to warn Aziraphale. It seemed wrong to him to keep quiet about it, but he didn’t want to go against a prophecy. He had no clue what would happen if he tried that.

Prophecies, Newt quickly decided, were giant headaches and Agnes was probably laughing at him across time.[23]

Only a few more, Newt decided. One prophecy a week, so only a few more weeks. And if things looked worse or he found a prophecy that made more sense, maybe something with a _hint_ of when these things were meant to happen, then Newt would try warning them. Both the angel and the demon.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale wasn’t completely certain which country that he was in. He hadn’t spent much time in this particular corner of the world recently. After properly settling down in London, Aziraphale rarely left the isle unless Heaven gave a specific assignment and it wasn’t Crowley’s turn to cover it. And humans move at such a fast pace. Borders between countries, those invisible and imaginary lines, shifted and rearranged themselves as maps were redrawn and empires rose and fell. Old names were erased and replaced by new ones.[24] So the angel couldn’t accurately tell someone his specific location.

But he could certainly describe the place in simple terms. During his six thousand years on Earth, Aziraphale had seen it more times than he could count. Only the faces, surroundings, and technology changed. He was in a warzone. Not a front with soldiers and armed forces. The aftermath in the form of a partially-destroyed village.

He didn’t know for certain what excuse that they used for this war. Something big enough to draw people from other continents into it. Disputes over territory. Coveting resources like oil. Money. Greed may not be the root of _all_ evil, but it sparked plenty. Aziraphale hoped it wasn’t a religious war. He never liked it when humans slaughtered each other for humans reasons while claiming it was in Her name.[25] Aziraphale felt the same way about people like that as Crowley did about the more “enthusiastic” Satanists: he preferred to avoid the entire crowd.

Crowley… Thinking about the demon reminded Aziraphale of why he’d left the familiar comfort of his bookshop and London in order to come to this hot, dry, and miserable place.

_“Honestly, I don’t know why you even bothered with this ‘our side’ nonsense if you’re still helping out your side like that. I trusted you.”_

_“…Did you? Couldn’t tell, angel. You seemed pretty set on keeping secrets until you were discorporated. Of course, shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing good ever came from trusting a demon.”_

Aziraphale had regretted his words as soon as they slipped out. He was upset about the theft of his books, but he went too far. He knew. He knew how long Crowley struggled to get him to admit that they were on the same side. He knew how important that it was to Crowley. When he saw the brief flash of hurt before Crowley lashed out, Aziraphale knew he went too far.

And Crowley was right. During the Apocalypse, he kept secrets from Crowley. Because he was trying to be a “proper angel” even as everything fell apart. He kept secrets and didn’t trust Crowley. He couldn’t trust him because that would mean admitting that Heaven _wanted_ a war. That they wanted to destroy Earth and humanity in the process. And Aziraphale couldn’t do that. And he couldn’t risk Crowley either. But all he ended up doing in that mess was make things worse and he hurt Crowley.

He didn’t trust Crowley. Or rather, he _did_ trust Crowley, but he didn’t act like he did. And that hurt his friend. Enough that when Aziraphale hurt him again by accident, it made Crowley question how much he was trusted once more. It was just a mess. A giant, painful, and confusing mess.

He owed Crowley an apology. Aziraphale knew that he should have gone to apologize after the demon stormed out of the bookshop, but he’d wanted to give Crowley a chance to cool down. And he needed time to put his thoughts in order enough to give him a proper apology for everything, past and present. It was the least that he could do. And after a short visit to Jasmine Cottage and a chat with Anathema over tea, he found a productive way to occupy his time.[26]

The sky turning from blue to orange and red, it had been a long day after several long days. It wasn’t even the first half-destroyed village that he’d visited. Aziraphale had kept himself busy. Without someone looming over him and counting his miracles, he went around ensuring that water sources weren’t contaminated, that innocent bystanders remained hidden when more dangerous and armed humans swept through, that people trapped in the rubble were rescued, and that serious injuries abruptly turned out to be only minor issues.

He’d been performing miracles since leaving London, the task both a distraction and a self-imposed form of penance. And honestly was growing weary from being surrounded by pain and misery. Humans were capable of greater acts of kindness than even the most devout angel could imagine, but they were also capable of far worse acts of cruelty upon each other than what any demon could conceive. He and Crowley learned that fact long ago. Part of him felt better helping, but Aziraphale also wanted to be back in his bookshop with a mug of cocoa and all his books. And with Crowley.

Soon. Aziraphale reassured himself that he would go home soon. He would give Crowley a little more time and space, he would do some more good somewhere that desperately needed it, and then Aziraphale would go home.

The fighting had ended a few hours ago, but people were still digging through the rubble. Bullets and explosives had torn through the village until the armed forces moved on[27] and now the angel was wandering through the aftermath. He thought he glimpsed a woman in red during the worst of it, but that might have been his imagination. It would be night soon, but Aziraphale didn’t intend to stop until the survivors were accounted for and safe.

At the edge of the village, next to a few crumbled rocks that used to be a protective wall before someone blew a giant hole in it, was a house. Or the remnants of one. This section had been hit the worst and the locals had already removed numerous bodies from the area. But Aziraphale held out hope and kept looking.

Humans might have done their best to search for survivors, but angelic senses were more acute.

Faint breathing came from under a slab of rubble and he sensed an unfamiliar and human aura, meaning that someone was alive under there. Trapped, but alive.

Taking a moment to remember the local language, Aziraphale called towards the closest lingering humans and asked for their assistance. He was supposed to encourage humans to do the actual good deeds as much as possible. And after a brief moment of confused hesitation,[28] they hurried over and started moving rubble.

Two chunks of what-used-to-be-wall managed to wedge against each other in a way that protected a little girl buried beneath. Unconscious, but alive. Almost miraculously, though Aziraphale had nothing to do with her survival and he hadn’t sensed any other angels in the immediate area all day. The broken ankle and concussion that healed with a barely-noticed finger snap, on the other hand, certainly was his work.

He smiled as one of the men took the girl once Aziraphale pulled her out. The angel wasn’t as fond of children as Crowley was. They were loud, messy, and tended to run around wildly. They left sticky fingerprints in books and dog-eared pages. Oh, he certainly liked _specific_ kids, but he preferred to enjoy most of them from a distance. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t happy to find a child safe and sound.

“There you are, my dear,” he muttered, even if she wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway. “All sorted out.”

Then Aziraphale stiffened, a sensation putting him on full alert. Something that had been hiding its presence before. Something close. And demonic.

Not like Crowley. Even from the beginning and no matter what Gabriel claimed, Crowley’s aura never seemed evil.[29] This demonic aura felt evil, cruel, and malicious. But also like damp and rotting things. Mildew. Stagnant water and pond scum. Hints of hellfire. And choking amounts of sulfur.

Biting his bottom lip briefly, Aziraphale stood up and straightened up his jacket with small and nervous motions. He looked around anxiously. The humans in the area abruptly decided to move towards the other end of the village to search for survivors. And to stay there. He couldn’t risk anyone getting caught in the crossfire. Then, drawing himself up and attempting to look as haughty as possible,[30] Aziraphale turned around.

“I was under the impression that all of you intended to leave us alone,” he said firmly.

Walking towards the angel, no longer trying to hide his presence in any way, was a man-shaped figure in a ratty coat and white hair. He looked diseased and vile, like something that crawled out of a ditch. But it was the black eyes and the toad clinging to his head that confirmed his inhuman nature.

The sword in his hand also served as a pretty big hint.

Baring his teeth in an expression that couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a smile, the demon said, “My orders were to leave Crawly alone. Can’t go chasing him down. My bosses didn’t say a word about annoying little angels though.”

“There’s no reason why we can’t handle this like civilized beings,” said Aziraphale, taking a step back as the demon advanced. “Perhaps we could start with introductions instead of all this…,” he grimaced slightly, “sword business? Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate and long-term representative for Heaven on Earth, at your service.” He glanced around nervously, trying to assess his chances of escape. “And what may I call you?”

A sliver of an idea sparked in the angel’s mind. Aziraphale edged back, moving towards a barely-standing chunk of wall, which caused the demon to follow. The vicious grin seemed predatory, as if he was enjoying the idea of toying with the angel, but that was fine. If he could lure the demon to the right spot, Aziraphale hoped that he could resolve this without getting stabbed.

After how everything unfolded, he wasn’t certain what would happen to him if he ended up discorporated. At a minimum, he may never make it back down to Earth again.

And it was a cursed blade. Aziraphale could sense it, demonic and uncomfortable. If the damage was serious enough, he might end up completely destroyed rather than just discorporated.

“Hastur, Duke of Hell,” he said shortly, raising his blade. “There. Introductions made. Now let’s skip to the part where I eviscerate you.”

The dark blade flashed through the air, barely missing the angel as he twisted out of the way. Another swing and Aziraphale managed to sidestep it again. Hastur frowned in surprise when his target didn’t die as easily as he expected. But while the demon was a vicious and capable swordsman with relatively recent experience, Hastur had forgotten that this particular angel spent six thousand years on Earth and managed to avoid being discorporated by aggressive humans during that time. And before that, Aziraphale once wielded a sword of his own. Dodging the attempted strikes wasn’t easy or a permanent solution, but he only needed to manage for a couple minutes.

Unlike Hastur, Aziraphale managed to keep an eye on his surroundings.

“Hold still,” snarled Hastur.

The sword passed close enough that it nearly sliced through the material of Aziraphale’s waistcoat[31] as the angel stumbled back a little further. Far too close for comfort in his opinion. But when the demon followed, Aziraphale’s mouth twitched into a slight smile.

In a swift and smooth movement,[32] Aziraphale unfurled his wings[33] and slammed one into the demon. The impact knocked Hastur into the chunk of wall with a grunt. And with a quick snap of a miracle, the damaged wall collapsed on the demon and half buried him.

Breathing a little unsteadily as his hands started dusting off and straightening up his outfit, the gestures filled with nervous energy, Aziraphale said, “Well, that was thoroughly unpleasant. I’m glad that’s over.”

But whatever relief that the angel might have felt over outsmarting his armed opponent evaporated when he heard the sound of rubble grinding together. And an inhuman shape burst back up.

While the first few corporeal bodies weren’t much different than those provided by Heaven, Hell tended to provide cheap, low-quality, and barely-humanoid bodies in the more recent millennia. They literally didn’t make them like they used to. Most demons didn’t spend much time on Earth outside of specific short-lived assignments anyway and it wasn’t worth the effort to provide anything decent.

By snagging one of the first and keeping it intact for the entire six thousand years, Crowley ended up with a body that he liked and capable of shifting between the serpent shape he used his first time on Earth to something almost human.[34] Others were forced to use more creative methods of blending in with humanity, their physical forms barely managing something animalistic at times. Looking like a toad, a lizard, or even a swarm of flies were easier to maintain with the cheap and poor-quality bodies. Some ended up clinging to and puppeting human corpses using their more beastly corporeal forms, blurring the line between possession, fusion, and flat out merging.

But sometimes a demon just had to forget subtlety and unleash the true appearance of their inhuman forms.

Hastur abandoned the white-haired figure as the vaguely toad-like shape crawled out from under the rubble, growing and shifting as he really let go. Within seconds, there was a large and unexpectedly muscular entity that still resembled a toad to an extent. If said toad combined with a professional wrestler while stealing enough needle-like teeth to take up a job as a seamstress. Bulging eyes, moist green-gray skin, disproportionately-sized head with an oversized mouth, warts that ran along sturdy muscles, and webbing between his digits, even the vaguely humanoid body shape[35] wasn’t enough to mistake Hastur for anything other than a demon. But he was powerful, angry, and still holding his sword.

A sword radiating darkness, evil, and what felt a lot like hellfire.

And if Aziraphale entertained any ideas about escaping, they vanished as Hastur unfurled a set of black wings with white markings, the patterns and shape similar to the aggressive Australian Magpie.[36] Hastur stretched out his wings to their full size, a rather common intimidation tactic that angels and demons alike would occasionally fall back on. Similar to how some animals would attempt to make themselves look bigger and more dangerous when facing a predator or a threat.

Of course, Hastur _was_ bigger and more dangerous. He didn’t need the extra intimidation factor.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to outrun or outfly the demon. And he’d already used up the one trick that he’d devised so far. Unarmed and facing a larger and stronger opponent, Aziraphale had limited options.

Moving faster than before, Hastur swung his cursed blade. An overhead swing, it nearly severed Aziraphale’s right wing as he dove out of the way and the sword cleaved through the stone instead. Hastur ripped it free and pressed his attack while the angel continued to dodge.

 

* * *

 

Crowley wasn’t an albatross.

By all the laws of physics, he shouldn’t even be capable of flight. None of them should. Their wingspans should be too small to lift a man-shaped and sized being. Not to mention that they weren’t aerodynamic in the slightest.  But physics tended to get a little fuzzy when it came to ethereal and occult entities. The wings could somehow support them in flight.

But there were still limits. Crowley wasn’t an albatross. He wasn’t made for flying long distances. And he wasn’t made for the speeds that he was forcing himself to maintain for several hours by now. Stubbornness and imagination were the only reasons that he was pulling it off.

His wings were killing him though. And he felt exhausted.

He didn’t know how far that he’d traveled so far. He wasn’t even certain how long he’d been flying. High enough to avoid being seen and low enough to avoid getting hit by an airplane. And with the carefully-wrapped sword in his grip and the sun starting to set behind him,[37] the demon was completely focused on the angelic aura.

Almost there. Crowley could sense it. Not much further.

Then he noticed another powerful aura. A demonic one. A demonic and familiar aura far too close to Aziraphale. And that discovery caused Crowley to push his corporeal form and his power a little further, coaxing a little more speed into his flight.

The ground below a blur, ears roaring from the rushing wind, and a sharp headache stabbing somewhere behind his eyes, Crowley was navigating mostly blind. He was going too fast. He followed the scent of his angel as he moved at impossible speeds.

But he refused to risk being too late. He had already experienced what it felt like to lose his angel once.[38] Crowley couldn’t go through that again. And if that meant pushing himself to and maybe _past_ his limits, feeling stretched out and scattered as he kept trying to hurry a little more, then that’s what he would do.

Aziraphale needed him.

Body straight as an arrow and folding his wings flat against his sides, Crowley dove. He plunged forward and down. Racing towards some distant target below like a falcon. Gravity added a little more speed. Aiming for the demonic aura practically on top of Aziraphale’s. And at the last possible moment, Crowley twisted in midair and his heel slammed into the demonic entity at terminal velocity before they both tumbled across the ground.

Aching from the impact and the flight, distantly aware that the damage should have been far worse if he hadn’t been concentrating on keeping himself together, Crowley couldn’t immediately bring himself to move. Not to mention that his feathers were now an uncomfortable mess. Lying on his back staring at the red sky, trying to catch his breath even if he didn’t actually need to breathe, sounded like a wonderful idea to Crowley. That was a stunt that he would _never_ try again.

“Crowley?”

The surprised, confused, and _relieved_ tone caused him to raise his head. Somehow Crowley managed to keep his sunglasses through the entire desperate flight. Mostly because he refused to consider the option that he would lose them. But the shades did nothing to hide his small smile as he started pushing himself up.

“Hey, angel,” he said breathlessly. Holding out the carefully-wrapped object towards him, Crowley continued, “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in. Got something for you.”

Still frowning in confusion, Aziraphale took the offering. With a gentle tug, the white cloth fell away and revealed the familiar short sword. Aziraphale blinked a couple times while silently mouthing “oh” before giving the weapon a short nod. The blade erupted into flames.[39]

As Crowley climbed back to his feet, something roughly grabbed his left wing and twisted hard. One sharp and fast motion. A strong and ruthless hand forcefully bending it in a direction even his flexible wing wasn’t meant to go. A sudden _crack_ and agony flared out as Crowley yelled in pain, collapsing back to his knees as his vision whited out briefly.

“Hello, _Crawly_ ,” hissed Hastur in his ear, pain and his voice nearly drowning out the angel’s shout of horror. “Guess this doesn’t count as going after you. Not when you came to me.”

Then Hastur shoved him down and metal _clanged_ , swords clashing as the angel surged forward. Out of practice and uncomfortable with violence in general, Aziraphale pressed the attack. He blocked and parried with his smaller weapon. And more importantly, he drove Hastur back from Crowley.

Gritting his teeth and gasping quietly, Crowley forced himself back to his feet and stubbornly imagined that his broken wing _wasn’t_ in throbbing agony. He didn’t have the time, energy, or ability to focus properly to do much else. But his imagination could do some impressive things. He managed to keep his body from burning and kept the Bentley driving even as flames created by a demonically-charged road tried to engulf him. And now he could almost convince himself that it didn’t hurt.

It was like standing in the middle of a seesaw. To remain steady, there was a careful balance that he needed to maintain. But the slightest shift one way or the other could upset that balance and send the seesaw crashing down on one end. And he would tumble to the ground, metaphorically skinning his knees and scratching up his palms on impact. But as long as Crowley could focus on imagining his wing didn’t hurt, he could maintain that delicate balance and keep the pain mostly at bay.

Aziraphale wasn’t doing that badly at fighting the larger, stronger, and uglier opponent. But his reluctance and discomfort with behaving violently kept him mostly on the defensive after his initial attack to protect Crowley. And Hastur wasn’t one to accept a draw.

Unlike Aziraphale with his short stint guarding Eden, Crowley was never much of a fighter.[40] He specialized in tempting. He talked and convinced people rather than fighting his way out of problems.

But he’d also spent a long time doing everything in his power to save Aziraphale whenever he was in trouble.

For a moment, he raised his fists awkwardly. Then he remembered that he didn’t really know anything about throwing a punch and dropped his arms before he could look any sillier. Instead, Crowley yanked a piece of rebar free from the rubble, the concrete breaking easily with the aid of a demonic miracle. It wasn’t quite a flaming sword or a cursed blade, but it was better than nothing.[41] One wing dangling awkwardly and the other tucked close for protection, Crowley marched forward with the rebar in his hands and swung it at Hastur’s shoulder hard enough to earn a snarl of pain.

And reminded the demon that yeah, he was still around.

Crowley smirked. Two-on-one wasn’t exactly a fair fight, but despite everything that had happened, Crowley was still a demon. And given the chance, a demon would never fight fair.

 

* * *

 

Newt tended to make himself scarce during Aziraphale and Anathema’s get-togethers for tea and book discussions. He didn’t want to intrude. Especially when the angel showed up without warning, clearly upset and needing a sympathetic ear. Preferably one with better advice than what Newt could offer, whatever the problem might be. Witches would probably know more about angel stuff than a former witch-finder. He felt that it would be better to give them some privacy to work through whatever happened to Aziraphale. And if it turned out to be something apocalyptic, he knew Anathema would tell him afterwards.

Until then, Newt would leave them alone.

He spent a couple hours upstairs, reading some of his magazines about upcoming technologies. But even those couldn’t completely distract him. There were too many things bouncing around in his head.

Newt knew that he was stressing himself out, but he couldn’t help it. There were just so much that he was worrying about. So many things about the near future. The prophecies that seemed centered on their local angel and demon. Anathema’s mother coming to visit next week. And a tiny box that he collected from his own mother that was currently hiding in his sock drawer. All these things weighed heavily on his mind.

Eventually, he gave up and pulled out the box. It was about time to check on Agnes Nutter’s prophecies anyway.

Closing his eyes, he flipped through the pages until it felt right to stop. Then Newt dragged a finger down until he stopped at a random point. Only then did he open his eyes and read the chosen prophecy.

_The angel with the burning sword, the Toad with a blade of glowing darkness, and the Serpent with a rod of metal shalle battle among the ruins. A celestial blade shalle plunge into a demon, holiness scorching away at demonic. The angel’s coat shalle darken, life’s blood spilled and soaking into white. And under brite stars, the Serpent will be no more._

Newt stared down at the words silently for a moment. Then he realized what it seemed to be implying. Quickly closing the boxes of electronic components and prophecies, he scrambled down the stairs.

“Anathema?” he called as he hurried into the room. And when he only saw the dark-haired woman cleaning up the cups from earlier, Newt asked casually, “Where’s your guest?”

“Aziraphale just left,’ she said, raising an eyebrow. “He had an argument with his… friend.[42] He wanted some advice. I think that he’s going to give Crowley some time before going back.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” said Newt. “Do you have his mobile number? Just in case we need to talk to him?”

She shook her head and said, “He only has a landline. Not much good if he’s going out of town for a little while.”

Newt straightened his glasses. That made sense to him. Aziraphale always seemed old-fashioned. But there had to be a way to warn them.

“And Crowley?”

“Never managed to get his number. Otherwise I would call him right now and tell him to straighten things out with Aziraphale. You would think that beings as old as the two of them would be better of these sorts of things.”

Newt nodded and shifted awkwardly. Maybe he should have tried to make a closer connection with the two inhuman entities a little sooner.

He tried to reassure himself that everything would be fine. Maybe he was wrong. He didn’t have as much experience with these things as Anathema’s family did. And even if he was right, maybe there was time. Nothing in the prophecy hinted at a time frame. Maybe he could wait and warn them both when they returned.

And yet the words of the most recent prophecy kept eating at him. It sounded serious. Not end-of-the-world serious, but… someone-might-die serious. He really wished that he had a way to contact the angel or demon. He doubted that Crowley’s number was listed somewhere. He didn’t seem like the type. But next chance Newt got, he was snagging his mobile number. And the angel’s landline number.

Just in case of emergencies or unnerving prophecies.

“Is something wrong?” asked Anathema with a frown, observant enough to pick up on his distracted mood.

“I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll have to see.”

* * *

 

21 No matter who you are, meeting the parents of the someone that you are particularly fond of was always at least a little stressful. Especially when Agnes made it quite clear how quickly Newt and Anathema’s relationship developed. He wasn’t certain if it being prophesied made it better or worse. Not to mention that the Device family was actually fairly wealthy and Newt suspected that they could probably hire assassins or something to get rid of him if they didn’t like him. [ ↑ ]

22 Even though Adam managed to break the connection to Satan and his destiny, he didn’t change his nature. He refused to actively use his powers unless he needed to and only on a small scale, but Adam’s subconscious still affected Tadfield enough to maintain perfect weather and discourage any ethereal or occult forces from trespassing again. The fact that neither Aziraphale nor Crowley were hindered the handful of times that they came by to check on Adam afterwards or when the angel accepted Anathema’s invitation for tea should reveal all that you need to know about the impression that they made on the boy. [ ↑ ]

23 She was. [ ↑ ]

24 Honestly, Aziraphale preferred Constantinople to Istanbul. He just thought the name sounded nicer. [ ↑ ]

25 The similar insistence on the war between Heaven and Hell being an important step in the Great Plan even as it became obvious that they just wanted the war itself and that was the true reason… It was a realization that Aziraphale still didn’t like to examine too closely. He knew it was true, but he didn’t like it. Disillusionment hurt. [ ↑ ]

26 It was either this or doing something about whaling boats or deforestation. Anathema had rather strong opinions about several topics and how they needed to be fixed. [ ↑ ]

27 Several of the more trigger-happy members were left dealing with the mystery of how their weapons were replaced with water pistols. And their high-tech guidance systems and GPS devices with an out-of-date atlas. If they just so happened to get lost a little, perhaps it was for the best. [ ↑ ]

28 There was a man with pale blond hair and a worn white jacket wandering through the partially-destroyed village speaking in a very archaic and old-fashion manner. He clearly didn’t fit in to his surroundings at all. Everyone who saw him there paused and thought that he seemed intelligent, very British, and… Well, that was usually the point where they would shrug and generally decide that they could ignore his various eccentricities as long as he was helping. [ ↑ ]

29 If asked to describe it, Aziraphale would say Crowley’s aura reminded him of… Apples. Curiosity. Smooth scales. Mischief. Vibrant plants. Creativity. Expensive wines. A hint of sulfur and something burnt that never faded, tied to his very demonic essence. A spark of goodness. And a constant wave of affection that the angel spent so long denying or assuming was general love for the world and not something more specific. [ ↑ ]

30 But mostly just succeeding in looking uncomfortable. [ ↑ ]

31 And everything beneath it, such as skin and squishy vital organs. [ ↑ ]

32 One that his general appearance wouldn’t suggest him capable of. [ ↑ ]

33 A small and automatic flicker of power allowing his wings to phase through his clothes without ripping them. [ ↑ ]

34 A few traits lingered. Some more obvious than others. While Crowley could minimize his inhumanness to an extent, shrinking his serpent-like eyes until the sclera were as white as humans’ when he focused enough, not everything could be hidden. The yellow shade and the vertical pupils remained. [ ↑ ]

35 Meaning that there were a couple arms, a couple legs, a head, and it stood upright. That description could also fit a bear on her hindlegs, but mostly it is described as humanoid since a bear will eventually drop on all fours and possibly charge you because you didn’t realize how close that you’d wandered towards her cubs while studying her body shape. [ ↑ ]

36 Regardless of what many people assumed, angels don’t exclusively have white wings and demons don’t exclusively have black ones. The misconception came from humans mostly glimpsing the same angel and demon pair throughout history. Aziraphale and Crowley were responsible for that perception. In truth, they could have wings similar to any bird on Earth or even those that never existed. The wings were influenced by personality.

Crowley’s wings were like a crow’s; he shared their curiosity, intelligence, and fondness for shiny things like his Bentley. Aziraphale was more like a swan when it came to his wings; both appeared elegant and peaceful on the surface, but both were capable of breaking bones by beating someone with said wings if necessary. [ ↑ ]

37 It was early in the day when he left the bookshop, but the time zones made it hard for Crowley to properly judge how many hours it had been. [ ↑ ]

38 The worst few hours of his existence. And when his existence included being cut off from Her grace, Falling into a pit of boiling sulfur, and the creation of a certain educational children’s television show with obnoxiously cheerful songs and a purple dinosaur, that was quite the accomplishment. [ ↑ ]

39 Holy fire. Not to be confused with hellfire. They were completely different. More like opposites, really. [ ↑ ]

40 His time as the Black Knight mostly involved tripping up his opponent with demonic miracles until he managed to wiggle his way to victory. [ ↑ ]

41 And after the spray bottle and the tire iron, Crowley was starting to get used to wielding unusual weapons when things grew dicey. [ ↑ ]

42 Like so many humans, angels, and demons, Anathema was uncertain of the exact relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley. Especially after she figured out their true natures. She had her suspicions, but very little was concrete. All that she knew for certain was that the two of them were close and meant the world to each other. [ ↑ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are certainly growing a bit more intense. I wonder how they will turn out? Especially with those ominous prophecies hanging over them.


	3. The Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started writing this, I assumed that I could make it a one-shot. As you can probably tell by now, I failed in that idea. But at least there’s more material for you to read. Also, if you haven't been paying attention to the tags before, you really should at this point...

Not all of them were equal combatants, though they certainly tried. Aziraphale’s swordplay, while mildly awkward and rusty, remained sharp enough to meet Hastur’s continued assault. But Crowley’s clumsy attacks with his length of rebar were easily deflected by the other demon. Metal _clanged_ loudly and holy fire flickered, the fight continuing as the sun painted the sky a darkening shade of red and the shadows stretching out. Human curiosity should have brought someone to investigate, but everyone seemed focused on staying on the far side of the village.

Nothing would interrupt them.

Hastur’s blade came down, Crowley barely managing to get the rebar up in time to keep it from burying into his collarbone. The grotesque demon then twisted his cursed weapon into a sideways slash towards Aziraphale’s chest. The short sword deflected the jagged blade away, though the force behind it made the angel stumble back a step.

Each impact from Hastur stung sharply, jostling the metal in Crowley’s hand and undoubtedly doing the same to Aziraphale. In his more demonic form after abandoning his human façade, he was physically stronger. [43] The blows hurt even if they were blocked. And Crowley couldn’t raise his left arm very high; trying caused problems with his broken wing, jostling it in ways that he couldn’t prevent. He could only block and deflect the higher strikes with strength of one arm. And while Hastur didn’t ignore the angel, he could recognize weakness and vulnerability when he saw it.

Not to mention that with Crowley, it was a bit more personal.

Landing another powerful blow that rattled the rebar, Hastur growled, [44] “You _always_ thought you were better than us, you smug snake. But look how far you’ve fallen.”

“Demon,” snapped Crowley as burning sword met cursed blade, metal scraping harshly with Aziraphale’s deflection. “Falling comes with the territory.”

The three of them continued the exchange of blows, only one of them truly wanting to fight. Only one of them wanting to kill. But they were all watching carefully. Waiting for a fatal mistake. Because they all knew that this would not end without someone’s permanent demise. Hastur’s hunger for vengeance wouldn’t allow it. And one of them would eventually make a mistake. They weren’t human, but they could get tired and they could get sloppy. It might take longer, but it was only a matter of time before someone slipped up.

Literally.

A single misstep. Aziraphale stepped back to avoid another swing, but his foot landed on an unsteady chunk of concrete that shifted under his weight. The angel stumbled awkwardly as he tried to stay upright. And that moment where Aziraphale fought to regain his balance was when Hastur struck.

Luck [45] was on Aziraphale’s side as he lost his balance and fell, twisting slightly. The way that he fell meant that Hastur missed his original target. But the angel didn’t escape unscathed. The cursed blade cut deeply into Aziraphale’s upper thigh, just below the left hip, as he fell back.

A cry of pain and a _clatter_ of metal tumbling across the ground, the flames of the dropped sword extinguishing as both hands flew to clutch at the wound.[46] The jagged edge tore a deep gash, one that left the angel pale. Not serious enough to be fatal, but enough that Aziraphale and an abruptly furious demon barely noticed Hastur snagging the discarded white cloth from the ground.

“Aziraphale!” shouted Crowley, flinging himself in front of the downed angel and instinctively trying to extend his uninjured wing protectively.

Wincing as he tried to get up, Aziraphale said, “It’s fine. Ruined these trousers though.” He practically invented the stiff-upper lip concept; he acted British before humans even reached that part of the world. Struggling and failing to stand, the angel glanced around and asked, “Where’s—”

“So this is how you carried it,” said Hastur, causing Crowley to stiffen. He turned to see Hastur holding the celestial blade,[47] the protective white cloth wrapped around the hilt to insulate him from it. “A handy trick, Crawly.”

One demon dual-wielding a cursed sword and now a blessed blade against an injured angel with no weapons and a grounded demon with only a piece of rebar for defense. The fight remained uneven, but now Hastur held all the advantages. And Crowley knew it.

He should run. Every survival instinct screamed that he needed to get out of there. Any demon with a hint of self-preservation would already be gone. But with one wing useless and Aziraphale struggling to stand, Crowley wasn’t going anywhere.[48]

“If holy water won’t hurt you, maybe one of these two will do the job, Crawly,” said Hastur, bringing both swords up to bear.

Forcing his voice to remain calm and casual as he moved sideways, but also fluttering his injured wing slightly to keep the other demon’s focus on him instead of the angel,[49] Crowley said, “You know that you’re getting close to ignoring Hell’s orders, right? Maybe not the letter, but the spirit, yeah, you’re breaking the spirit of their orders concerning me. Seems like a pretty big risk.” He kept moving sideways until he had Hastur facing away from Aziraphale, the angel now behind the aggressive demon and relatively out of the line of fire. “Do you honestly think that trying to take me out, which you have no proof is even possible anymore, is worth getting into their _really_ bad books?”

Crowley scrambled backwards desperately as the pair of swords flashed through air rapidly, nearly getting sliced multiple times within seconds. Hastur grinned viciously as he pressed forward. The hunger for revenge gleamed in his black eyes. Nothing would distract him from the target of his rage. Not Crowley’s attempt to talk his way out and not Aziraphale trying to stand without putting weight on his injured leg.

Pure luck[50] allowed Crowley to block a few more blows from Hastur, the rebar performing a task it was never meant to. Each swing took the awkward duel further and further from the angel. Which was exactly what Crowley wanted.[51] But Hastur wasn’t just a corrupter and a champion lurker. He was a Duke of Hell and a trained fighter, one that had been long awaiting the war that the Apocalypse would bring.

And Crowley wasn’t. He wasn’t a fighter.

The jagged edge of the cursed blade caught the rebar at just the right[52] angle, letting Hastur finally disarm Crowley with a sharp jerk. He stumbled at the sudden loss of his only defense. Panic flashed across his face, the sunglasses concealing nothing. Hastur bared his teeth in a vicious grin.

Then a wet and choked sound was driven out of Crowley, along with all the air in his chest. He looked down, the celestial sword buried in his sternum and sizzling as the holiness scorched at the demon even without the actual flames.

 “ _Crowley!_ ” screamed Aziraphale in horror and anguish.

The pain delayed a second or two, but then it hit _hard_. No amount of mental balancing and imagination could block it all. Burning, tearing, melting, _shredding_ —

Plucking the sunglasses off and tossing them aside, Hastur said, “Not so cocky now,” he pushed the sword a little deeper, the hilt pressing against the torn fabric of Crowley’s shirt, “are you, _Crawly_?”

Hastur let go, leaving the blade buried in Crowley’s chest as it burned away at his true essence and scorching at his physical form. Demonic and holy didn’t mix and that included their corporeal forms. He stumbled forward a step before falling to his knees, gasping in pain. Time seemed to stop as his entire world was swallowed up by agony.[53]

One fragmented thought managed to slip through. When She asked him to bring the sword, She knew this would happen. This was all part of Her ineffable plan. Getting stabbed with the same sword that probably should have been used on him back in the beginning was something that Crowley would probably view as some twisted form of poetic justice. At least, he would if he could focus on anything other than the destructive pain of holiness poisoning and scorching away at him.

Then he saw Hastur turning his attention towards Aziraphale behind him, the angel finally managing to get to his feet and even hobbled a few steps forward,[54] and time seemed to start ticking forwards properly again from his perspective. Hastur raised the cursed blade, ready to strike down the unarmed Aziraphale.

 _No_. Hastur would not hurt Aziraphale. Crowley couldn’t lose his angel. Not again. Never again.

A silent and short prayer.[55] Begging, _pleading_ , for one thing even as he was breaking apart: “Keep my angel safe.”

Crowley made his choice. Just as She knew that he would. It was truly ineffable and inevitable.

 

* * *

 

The moment that Aziraphale saw the sword, _his_ sword, buried into Crowley’s chest, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. The broken scream of his name felt like it was torn out of the angel. The demon fell to his knees as Aziraphale forced himself to his feet finally. The pain from the deep cut in his leg was nothing compared to what he felt right now, watching Crowley in pain as the demon’s body reacted badly to something holy imbedded in him. It would have been kinder to run the angel through with the sword instead.

Then, while Aziraphale fought his way through the shock and horror paralyzing his thoughts, moving forward a few wobbly steps without truly realizing that he was bringing himself within range of the same threat, he met Crowley’s eyes. And he saw Crowley give him a complicated look. A pained, tired, regretful, apologetic, but mostly _reassuring_ smile. An expression that gutted the angel before he realized why.

Hands gripping the hilt, the holiness instantly causing blisters and burning away at the flesh, Crowley ripped the sword out of his chest with a choked sound of pain. He held tightly as he turned the sword around, ignoring what Aziraphale could tell was unimaginable agony. Then, lunging back to his feet and forward, Crowley drove the blessed sword into Hastur’s shoulder.

He didn’t have enough force to drive it deep as it glanced off bone, but it went deep enough. Roaring in pain and fury, Hastur spun around and backhanded him. The impact knocked Crowley sprawling to the ground. He stayed there, lying among the dirt and rubble.

And that was enough to snap Aziraphale out of his paralyzing shock and horror. It reminded him of exactly who was responsible.

With Hastur facing away, the injured shoulder and the blessed weapon stuck there were towards the angel. Which Aziraphale took advantage of by grabbing the hilt and tearing it from the sizzling wound. Hastur snarled in pain and turned back, swinging his cursed blade. But it was already too late. The angel's sword ignited into white-hot flames.

Aziraphale was in avenging angel mode.

He was soft by choice. He liked nice things like his books, fine dining, cocoa, feeding ducks, fancy wines, tartan, and peaceful evenings at home where he could settle into his favorite reading chair while his best friend[56] sprawled bonelessly on a couch and the two of them would then talk for hours. He loved his comfy, cozy, and pleasant existence that he’d built on Earth. And Aziraphale chose to be approachable, kind, and caring. He chose to be good.[57] He chose to be the kind of angel who would give humans his sword to keep them warm and safe as they were banished from the garden. He chose to be soft.

But Aziraphale was given a flaming sword for a _reason_. And despite thousands of years of being nice, forgiving, and soft, a part of him never forgot how to be a warrior. He didn’t forget how to guard and _protect_.

And Hastur had just harmed someone under the angel’s protection.

The angel deflected the cursed blade, barely aware of his actions. He was moving instinctively. Hastur’s look of surprise and worry barely registered as the angel lunged towards him. Eyes blazing and righteous anger burning bright, the angel drove his flaming sword deep into the demon’s stomach.

Hastur screamed shrilly in pain, his own blade lashing out wildly until the angel caught it with his free hand. Then the demon ignited, holy fire consuming Hastur from the inside out, the angel’s protective fury and divine wrath fueling the flames. The angel didn’t even flinch, staring coldly at the burning figure.

“Demon,” snapped the angel, barely recognizing his own voice. “No more. Never again. _Begone_ from this _world_.”

The flames blazed brighter, filling the air with a scent similar to that of burnt _cuisses de grenouille._ [58] But the intense heat only lasted a few seconds more. Hastur’s screams cut off suddenly as he burst, the angel’s wing barely raising in time to block the moist and smoking chunks of demon. The gooey sensation of the bits staining his feathers wasn’t particularly pleasant. But it did seem to shake Aziraphale out of that more deadly and violent mindset.

There was a brief flash of discomfort with what he’d just done, but then it was pushed aside as everything came crashing back down again. _Crowley_. Aziraphale threw himself forward, collapsing on the ground next to the prone figure. Being careful of the broken wing and other injuries, Aziraphale gently rolled him from his awkward position on his side to something a little more comfortable on his back.

“Oh, Crowley…,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly.

The damage done by being stabbed and then holding the celestial weapon with his bare hands would have turned the angel’s stomach if it was physically possible. Crowley’s hands were burnt black, flesh flaking off the bones and fingers locked in curled positions from holding the hilt. The damage continued under the sleeves and up the arms beyond what Aziraphale could see. His arms remained curled close to his body, which drew attention back to the deepest wound. Half hidden by the dark clothes, there was a burnt, gaping, and ragged hole in Crowley’s chest that horrified Aziraphale. Black, charred ichor oozed out sluggishly.[59]

“Az’a’phale?” mumbled Crowley, slurring and hissing the word through his teeth.

He shivered slightly, his wings trembling as his breathing came out as short and rapid panting.[60] His complexion had turned completely ashen. And with his sunglasses missing, Aziraphale could see his eyes had gone completely golden and his pupils were dilated from pain, fear, and the increasing darkness. The effect wasn’t as intense as it might have been for a feline and they were nowhere close to round pupils even in their current state, but it was still noticeable.

And his aura was so overwhelmed with pain and distress that Aziraphale could barely recognize it as Crowley’s.

Looking deeper at the demon’s essence was almost worse than seeing the physical damage to his body. Holy water might be more concentrated and effective, but a blessed weapon was still holy. And holiness was the antithesis of the demonic. Under Aziraphale’s angelic senses, the metaphorical sweater of Crowley’s true self was in bad shape. The weapon scorched and tore a huge hole through the middle of it, leaving the metaphysical strands seared and unraveling. The sweater was coming apart. _Crowley_ was coming apart.

“Did you.. sssmite Hassstur?”

“…Maybe,” he mumbled, his eyes still darting across the vicious injuries.[61] “Now hold still. We’ll get this taken care of in half a tick.”

Healing serious injuries required a larger miracle and messing with an angel’s true essence[62] wasn’t easy. But Heaven wasn’t going to demand an accounting for this and Aziraphale wouldn’t care even if they did. Not anymore.

But as Aziraphale brought his hand near the deepest wound and tried to start the healing process, Crowley’s head wrenched back and a weak cry tore out of his throat, startling the angel into stopping. The breathless and pained noise died down to quiet whimpers that Crowley was clearly trying to smother.[63] The worst part, however, was what Aziraphale sensed the moment that he tried to heal him. The ragged, torn, and burnt edges of the wound to Crowley’s true essence flared up, the holy damage reacting to the angelic power and worsening. Aziraphale _hurt_ him.

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, a low and desperate whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”[64]

Aziraphale could heal the physical damage to his corporeal form, but that would only destroy Crowley’s true self _faster_.

“I can’t use a miracle on you. It’ll make it worse.” Keeping his voice calm as possible, Aziraphale asked, “Can you manage a small demonic one? I can handle your corporeal body afterwards, but you need to do the rest, my dear. I know it hurts, but can you try?”

“Been trying… Too much…”

His words were too slow. Too strained, filled with too much pain, and too slow. Crowley was never slow. He drove fast. He changed his fashion and names rapidly, shedding old identities and styles like a snake would shed his skin. For someone who appreciated sloth so much, he always seemed to be moving forward. Speaking quickly and thinking several steps ahead. And he didn’t have to pause and reflect about what certain feelings or impulses meant. He would just plow straight ahead, accepting those emotions. He always knew what he wanted. Aziraphale could barely seem to catch up sometimes.

_“You go too fast for me.”_

As many times as he’d regretted those words at different points recently, he kept finding new reasons. At that moment, Aziraphale would give anything for Crowley not to be growing more and more sluggish.

“‘Sss okay,” he continued, shuddering again. “‘Sss okay, Az’a’phale…”

Aziraphale bit his lip briefly before shrugging off his pale jacket, miracling it around his wings. If Crowley was shivering, then the angel figured that must be cold. That must be it. And carefully draping the coat over the injured demon hid the gaping chest wound and ruined hands. Because Aziraphale didn’t know what else to do about them.[65] He didn’t know how to help.

“It’s going to be all right. You’re going to be fine,” Aziraphale lied shakily.

But it _wasn’t_ really a lie, the angel reassured himself. Because it would be true. He would make it true. He wouldn’t consider any other possibility.

Aziraphale didn’t like the dark stain soaking through the fabric of the jacket. He didn’t like what it implied. He tried to ignore it.

Part of the jacket moved, Crowley trying to reach out weakly with his ruined hand. With how long that they needed to maintain at least the illusion of being enemies, they weren’t the most physically demonstrative or affectionate people. Though at least part of it was Aziraphale’s fault. He was the slowest to change. And Aziraphale remembered the state of his hands hidden under the jacket. They were burnt too badly to risk touching; the angel didn’t want to cause further pain.[66] But if Crowley was seeking out some form of physical contact, he wouldn’t deny him that either.

Aziraphale gently squeezed Crowley’s right shoulder. Something seemed to relax a tiny fraction at the touch. Aziraphale felt scales form briefly under his fingers before returning to being the fabric of Crowley’s clothes. No matter how long it might have been, his corporeal form was still naturally a serpent that just so happened to be able to be human-shaped. But he managed to stay in his more familiar form.

And when Crowley’s increasingly-unfocused eyes closed,[67] he leaned his head slightly until it brushed against the angel’s arm. Aziraphale obliged by moving his hand to rest against the side of demon’s face. He slipped his fingers behind his head enough to cushion it against the rocks and dust, thumb brushing briefly against the tiny image of a snake near Crowley’s temple.

Aziraphale faintly wondered if something was wrong with his own corporeal form; his throat felt too tight and his eyes burned. It couldn’t be unshed tears because that would mean that he was upset and Aziraphale couldn’t be upset because Crowley would be _fine_.

“I know that you have a certain fondness for sleeping,” he said, his voice strained, “but now might not be the best time for a nap.”

Quiet and faint, he murmured, “‘M sssorry…”

“If you _have_ to rest, you don’t need to apologize,” said Aziraphale.[68] “But I forgive you anyway. I forgive you.”

Some of the tension and strain left the demon’s face, finally losing consciousness. If he was human, he would have long since passed out from pain and shock. If he was human, he would have already just _passed_ in general. It was a minor miracle of the demonic variety that he stayed awake as long as he did.

Aziraphale desperately wanted to heal him. It almost hurt resisting the impulse. He _had_ the power to repair the broken and torn body. But keeping Crowley from discorporating would only end the demon by worsening the damage to his essence. Not that being discorporated would be much better. Being yanked to Hell, his true self wounded and vulnerable, could end up fatal in the long run.

He blinked rapidly, the angel’s face growing wet. Aziraphale didn’t want to admit what he was sensing. Crowley’s aura was weakening. And his essence… Unraveling, unwinding, charring, dissolving, coming apart, being _unmade_. Crowley was fading and he didn’t know how to help.

Bowing his head, Aziraphale whispered, “Please, I have no right to ask this of You, but… Please… I know that he is Fallen and… And I know that means that You… But please,” he prayed softly, “even if You cannot forgive him, if there is any way… If there is any way that Your Ineffable Plan will allow it, please help Crowley. Please don’t let this happen to him.”

Aziraphale rarely prayed. Most angels tended to send messages through proper channels instead. There was a proper way to do things. A specific type of order that all angels wanted to obey. And he’d always been afraid that praying would bring Her attention to his Arrangement with a demon. He couldn’t risk bringing attention to himself or especially Crowley. But there was no point hiding it now and he didn’t have access to those channels at the moment. And while he wasn’t certain that it would work,[69] he would try if it could possibly help Crowley.

It wasn’t even a proper prayer. Too jumbled, too casual, and too strained. But it was all that he could seem to manage before the tears choked him too much and he muttered a shaky “amen.”

He was going to be fine. Even if Crowley’s weak breathing slowed further, the dark stains on the draped jacket worsened, and the metaphysical sweater of his true essence was breaking apart, he would be _fine_. Aziraphale would not consider the alternative. He clung to the feeling of Crowley, the fading and hurt part within the broken body, and strained his senses to focus only on his demon. He wouldn’t let him slip away.

Because Crowley would be _fine_.

Movement out of the corner of his eye startled the angel into looking up. A dark shape in the darkness, starlight barely showing anything.[70] It took Aziraphale a moment to realize what he was looking at. The black robes, the dark skull, the empty eye sockets… Death was here.[71] Then he blinked and the figure was gone.

Horror washed over Aziraphale. It couldn’t be what he thought it meant. Yes, seeing Death was a bad omen, but this was a warzone. Many people were dead or dying. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t—

His eyes widened, his angelic senses finding something wrong. Or rather, _not_ finding it. He couldn’t feel…

“No… Please, no.”

Empty. The corporeal body remained, but it felt empty, silent, and still. He was gone.

Not discorporated. Not returned to Hell. Aziraphale had discorporated a few demons in the past; he knew what it felt like as their essence was yanked back to Hell and he didn’t feel it happen to Crowley. No, Aziraphale just felt something… fade away… extinguished.

“ _Crowley_ ,” he whispered in a wavering voice. “I can’t… I _can’t_ find you.”

He reached with his senses, straining for even a thin thread. A tiny spark. _Something_. He had to be wrong. But Aziraphale couldn’t find any trace. All that was left was a lifeless body that once housed the most important person in the angel’s long existence.

Dead. Crowley was _dead_. Dead and gone _permanently_. Killed by Aziraphale’s own sword.

Shoulders shaking and chest tightening, Aziraphale collapsed in on himself. Grief and heartache wrapped around him, dragging him down like a stone around his neck. The weight of it was suffocating. Cradling the limp head with one hand, aching for what he’d lost, the angel wept with only the stars to bear witness.

 

* * *

 

 

43 Technically, they were all stronger and more durable than the average human. But their physical shape did put some limits on things that Hastur currently wasn’t bound by. [ ↑ ]

44 Or perhaps croaked. [ ↑ ]

45 Or ineffability. [ ↑ ]

46 Forged in hellfire and filled with demonic energy, the weapon was almost like poison to an angel. The burning and throbbing injury was both to his physical body and the essence of his true self. [ ↑ ]

47 No flames. A demon couldn’t summon the holy fire. But it was still a blessed weapon and sharp. [ ↑ ]

48 There was one possible way that Crowley might be able to escape. If Hastur decided to go after the easier target, it might buy him some time to run. Which would only happen if he let Hastur finish off _Aziraphale_. And that was never an option. [ ↑ ]

49 There was a species of bird called the killdeer that would do a similar trick with _fake_ injuries in order to lure predators away from their nest. The only way that he could be less subtle about his intentions would be if Crowley held up a sign that said “Look! I’m a distraction! Follow me and ignore the helpless angel over there, please.” Which might actually have worked just as effectively on Hastur. Especially since Aziraphale wasn’t the true target of the demon’s anger in the first place. Not to mention that Hastur wasn’t exactly the brightest demon to ever crawl out of Hell. [ ↑ ]

50 Or ineffability, though saying it would annoy Crowley. [ ↑ ]

51 It wasn’t even a conscious decision. Getting Aziraphale out of trouble, protecting _his_ angel, was an instinct carved into every scale and a compulsion laced into every feather. [ ↑ ]

52 Or wrong. [ ↑ ]

53 Not literally stopped. Not even stopped for a couple humans, which was a little simpler to manage. Stopping the Sands of Time wasn’t an easy task, even miracles having their limits. Crowley managed briefly during the Armaged-Don’t-Even-Think-About-It and even delayed the fallout for a while, not willing to succumb until they were relatively safe. But he passed out on the bus ride home that night and Aziraphale needed to help him up to his flat. And he ended up with a migraine for a week. Halting the inevitable march of time wasn’t something to attempt casually. [ ↑ ]

54 Aziraphale wasn’t looking at Hastur. He barely noticed the other demon in that moment. The only thought that made it through his numb shock and horror was to reach Crowley. [ ↑ ]

55 He knew now that She was listening, but he didn’t know if She would care. Or if it would do any good. He could only hope that for once a demon’s prayer would be answered. [ ↑ ]

56 Best friend, soulmate, dearest and most important person in his life on Earth… Aziraphale was still searching for the perfect term that fully described exactly what they meant to each other. It was difficult after spending so long trying to hide and minimize that connection. [ ↑ ]

57 Even when he didn’t match Heaven’s definition of Good. [ ↑ ]

58 A French dish involving frog legs. A dish that Aziraphale had lost his appetite for, at least for the foreseeable future. [ ↑ ]

59 Normally their physical bodies at least bled red. Accidents happened and humans tended to get nervous when injuries looked unnatural. But with how badly he was reacting to the holiness from the celestial weapon, scorching and poisoning the demon, a few less-than-normal things were bound to happen. [ ↑ ]

60 Despite technically not needing to breathe, his body was used to it after six thousand years and it was easier to let his physical form do what it wanted at the moment. Crowley needed to focus on just keeping himself together and dulling the pain as much as possible. Which wasn’t actually helping as much as he might have hoped. Turns out that resisting the damage to both his physical form and his true self was a tad more straining than convincing a stubborn ton of burning metal, rubber, and leather that it was a fully functioning automobile for a prolong period of time. Or perhaps it was simply because his strength was rapidly slipping away. [ ↑ ]

61 Aziraphale didn’t want to think about it. Smiting wasn’t _him_. [ ↑ ]

62 Or a demon’s. [ ↑ ]

63 His mental seesaw was wobbling wildly as he struggled to maintain his balance. But despite all his optimism, Crowley knew it was a losing fight. [ ↑ ]

64 He was apologizing for several things. For accidentally hurting Crowley worse. For the argument. For leaving. For various other mistakes or regrets over thousands of years. [ ↑ ]

65 Even with his books on various topics, the angel didn’t retain much information about first aid or medical treatment. When one could heal with a touch, there was generally no real need to remember the more human methods. Aziraphale was a little uncertain if leeches and bloodletting were still viable options. [ ↑ ]

66 They didn’t actually hurt Crowley anymore. He couldn’t feel anything past his mid-forearms. [ ↑ ]

67 He’d been staring at Aziraphale since the angel knelt beside him, as if trying to memorize a face that he already knew better than his own. He already knew what was coming. [ ↑ ]

68 Crowley wasn’t even certain what he was apologizing for exactly. Or even to who. It seemed to be a jumbled mess in his head. Maybe he was sorry for his fading consciousness. Or maybe for their argument or tempting those kids so that they stole those books. Or maybe for hurting his angel. Because Aziraphale had been _his_ angel from that moment on the wall around Eden even if he didn’t completely figure out what he was feeling towards him or why he always felt drawn towards Aziraphale until their encounter in Rome. Maybe he was sorry for going too fast or too slow or just not the right speed for so long. Or maybe he was sorry about Falling in the first place. But mostly he was sorry that he didn’t think he would be able to stay, no matter how much that he might want to. He was sorry that he was going to hurt his angel again. [ ↑ ]

69 Aziraphale hadn’t Fallen, but he certainly wasn’t exactly welcomed fondly in Heaven anymore. [ ↑ ]

70 Crowley always had better night vision than the angel. [ ↑ ]

71 Technically, Death was everywhere. [ ↑ ]


	4. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, based on the responses from that last chapter, I think I may have reduced several of you to tears and broken a few hearts. Of course, I think it would be safe to say that Aziraphale’s heart broke the worst.
> 
> Observant people will notice that I've added another chapter to the story total. That's because I decided to break this and the epilogue into two separate chapters. That way I wouldn't leave you dangling for quite so long. Making you wait too long would be cruel.

Aziraphale hadn’t cried over every untimely death, every preventable tragedy, and every horrifying injustice. His heart would have shattered beyond recovery within the first thousand years if he did. But he did cry many times during his time on Earth.

He cried over Abel’s murder, the first human death. He cried as the flood waters rose, washing away so many souls as part of the Great Plan.[72] He cried when disease, war, and famine carved wide paths through the population. He withdrew to somewhere private to weep over the Crucifixion and the pain that the poor young man suffered, the loss of the Library of Alexandria, and the Spanish Inquisition when he wandered into the worst of it and dragged a heavily drunk and miserable demon out of it. He cried over the loss of certain humans that he was particularly fond of. Oscar Wilde was one such human, but not the first nor the last. He wept over the horrors of World War II and other attempts to commit genocide throughout the ages. And just a few months ago, Aziraphale cried quietly over the presumed loss of his bookshop once the world was safe and they were back at Crowley’s flat, before he realized what Adam had given them back.

None of those moments hurt as much as the pain and utter grief that the angel felt currently.

He was hunched over the lifeless body, sobbing silently. Aziraphale was still cradling the limp head against his hand. His wings mantled over both of them, as if he could protect Crowley. As if there was anything left _to_ protect.

Sorrow, loss, and guilt clawed at his chest. Like there should be a raw and open wound in Aziraphale in the same place that Crowley was stabbed. Like Hastur drove his blade through the angel the same way that Aziraphale’s sword stabbed Crowley. It hurt more than he could bear. It would have hurt less if someone carved out his heart with a sharp knife.[73]

Time passed without the angel noticing. The stars twinkled overhead, silently observing his sorrow. He may have wept for minutes or hours. But eventually he ran out of tears and Aziraphale was left with only a dull ache in his head and chest.

Breathing shakily, Aziraphale finally let go of… He let go, straightened up, and clenched his hands close to his chest, eyes pressed closed. He knew this was… This must be part of Her plan. What else could explain the sudden return of his sword? Crowley’s arrival hadn’t surprised him much; Crowley _always_ showed up when he needed help.

 _Had_ always showed up.

He knew that he couldn’t truly understand the Ineffable Plan, it was beyond comprehension by definition, but Aziraphale found himself trying to figure out _why_. He believed even now that what happened must have been for a reason. Perhaps, he wondered, any other fate would have been worse. Aziraphale could imagine him being dragged back to Hell or being discorporated and ending up there, being tormented and tortured by the other demons before being executed, dying alone among those who hated him. There were dozens of crueler outcomes. The angel tried to reassure himself that at least Crowley wasn’t alone during his final moments.

But it still didn’t seem fair to him.

Aziraphale let his wings fold against his back, but he didn’t tuck them away. He couldn’t seem to motivate himself to bother. Just like he couldn’t bring himself to clean his wings, letting the sticky and disgusting bits of exploded Hastur dry on his feathers. He stayed there unmoving, eyes closed and trying to figure out what he was supposed to do now.

Once, when both of them were impressively drunk, Aziraphale and Crowley ended up discussing exactly how endless and immense eternity truly was. It involved a small bird flying to the end of the universe every thousand years to sharpen its beak on a giant mountain. The conversation wandered a bit, discussing how old the bird must be and how it must be making the journey in a spaceship, but it eventually reached the point. After the theoretical bird, the tiny and ancient creature, wore that mountain down to less than a speck of dust, eternity _still_ wouldn’t be over.

And that’s what Aziraphale was facing. Eternity stretched out in front of him. An eternity without Crowley.

He could see it clearly. Aziraphale would still have his books. He would go out to dinner, would feed the ducks, and would attend theater. He would keep indulging in the different earthly pleasures. Because Aziraphale would always love Earth, humanity, and all the little bits that made them worth protecting. But he also knew that it would feel hollow. Everything would seem hollow and empty if he was alone.

A human would have gone stiff kneeling there for so long. His limbs would have gone numb as circulation was cut off by his current position. But other than gradually noticing the throbbing from the cut on his leg again, nothing disturbed his silent vigil.

Eventually the faintest hint of light pressed against his eyelids and compelled the angel to open them. The sun remained below the horizon, but the first signs of dawn were lightening the sky. Aziraphale knew that the people who lived in the village would begin to stir. They would eventually notice him and the broken body beside him. Aziraphale was completely aware that he couldn’t stay much longer.

And yet he remained in place.

Aziraphale stared blankly, not noticing the new presence immediately. He didn’t realize that he wasn’t alone. Not until a powerful, overwhelming, and familiar presence brushed against his senses.

Though to be fair, it was understandable that he would not sense Her until She was ready to allow it. She was approaching the grieving angel gently and taking care not to startle or upset him further. She did not want to harm him, even if only with how he would react to Her unexpected company. That meant letting Her presence wash over him slowly.

That did not stop Aziraphale’s head from snapping up, eyes widening in recognition. Nor did it prevent the angel from surging to his feet, stumbling slightly from his injured leg, and flaring out his wings instinctively. If he paused to consider his actions, Aziraphale would have recognized the foolishness of what he was doing. It was pointless to place himself between Her and Crowley. Hiding the demon from Her view when he knew that She was omniscient and when both Heaven and Hell knew about them was laughable. But there was also no point in trying to protect Crowley now. It was too late. But the urge to protect Crowley remained even when the demon himself was gone.

“Aziraphale,” She said with a gentle smile. “There is no need for that, My child. I am not here to add to your heartache.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale quickly, bowing his head and taking a step back.

“For lying to Me about what became of your flaming sword? I already knew what you had done and I also knew that it was an act of love for the humans that you were tasked to protect. For attempting to halt the Apocalypse? You wished to protect the world and humanity.[74]”

“No, I mean…” Aziraphale trailed off, his wings folding against his back as he sank to the ground on Crowley’s right side. “I’m sorry, but I don’t regret being… us. _Our side_ …”

The admission terrified him. Or rather, admitting it to Her. It took so long to admit it to himself and to Crowley. And after they essentially cut ties with Heaven and Hell, he was no longer afraid of their old sides knowing. But there was something different about telling Her. He lost faith in Heaven, but not Her.

But regardless of how much he wasn’t supposed to be anything except enemies with a demon, he would never deny or regret Crowley. Never again.

Kneeling on the other side of the lifeless figure, She gave him a kind smile and said, “My child, never apologize for caring. I made you to love. Why would I not be proud of you for fulfilling that purpose beautifully?”

She reached out and cupped Aziraphale’s face gently. Taking a shaking breath, he leaned into the contact. He needed the comfort and the warm light that She brought.[75] Her grace seemed to wrap around him like a blanket, briefly chasing away the sorrow.

“Love comes in many forms. Love born of familiarity and shared history. Love born of shared aims and interests. Love born of obligation. Love born of true devotion. I would not expect you to love everything the same way, Aziraphale. You would not love old books the same way that you love Me. And you would love Crowley in yet a different way. But most importantly, you love this world and humanity. Truly love it for its own sake and no other reason. Many of My other angels love it because I have commanded it to be so and they are obedient, but they love the world in a distant and detached manner. And a limited and conditional way, ready to discard that love the moment that they believe that this world and the people in it are no longer necessary.”

He stared at Her silently, listening to Her words as She moved Her hands to rest on his shoulders. Her touch felt both too heavy and feather light.

 “You are different. You truly know My creations and love them. Their virtues and their imperfections. Both of you have loved this world so much even from the beginning, witnessing the best and the worst that humans can offer, and continued to love it dearly. Not just as a whole, but also the various parts, ideas, creations, and pieces. I am proud of you, Aziraphale. Regardless of what the other angels might tell you.”

“They would say that we’re supposed to love everything except demons,” said Aziraphale quietly, trying not to cross the line from _asking acceptable questions_ to _truly questioning_. “But You…”

“Even when they Fell, even as most continued to wander further and further from Me, they are still My children and I am saddened at their loss.” She turned briefly and stared at the messy splotch on the ground that used to be Hastur before turning back to Aziraphale. “Some Fell for stronger reasons than others. And some Fell because they were not meant to linger in Heaven, not with how it is now. Crowley would have never been content there. He asked questions and I sent him where he could find answers.”

“By having him Fall?”

“If he remained an angel, he would not have been on Earth for six thousand years. If he had not Fallen, there would have been no reason for both of you to be on Earth together. He would not have been with you, both of you influencing each other. Humanity and that time with each other helped both of you learn free will. And there would have been no one to stand alongside Adam, defending humanity out of love for it.”

“The ineffable plan,” said Aziraphale quietly. He looked back down at the pale and still face, blinking back a few more tears. “And his role in Your plan ends here. Like this.”

The sky was gaining a few shades of pink and orange. The sun was growing closer to the horizon. It made it easier to see how lifeless the demon’s face seemed. Crowley looked and felt empty and it still hurt more than Aziraphale could describe.

“My poor, grieving child,” She said with a soft smile. “He came to you, without hesitation or thought of how you last parted. He came to you, across an ocean and bearing a weapon that he knew could kill him. He came to you and stood against those who would harm you, knowing that it was a fight that he could not win. He came to you because he loved you. He loved you and the world deeply.”

Her words did little to ease the guilt and misery weighing down the angel. If anything, Aziraphale felt worse than before.

She continued, “In many ways, he behaved more like a human. Just as you have always been more similar to humanity than your fellow angels. You have noticed, have you not? Humanity and aspects such as their free will and imagination tend to be contagious. And for that reason, it would be fairer to judge you both as I would humans.” Looking at the still figure, She said, “And I never claimed that My purpose for him is complete. My plan still has a place for two who love this world and humans so much. Two who belong to Earth more than they do to Heaven or Hell.”

Aziraphale stiffened, Her words echoing around his head. Something seemed to flutter in his chest like a trapped pigeon. An emotion that he didn’t dare try to identify or name. Something that slightly resembled cautious hope.

She reached down and gently started repositioning the broken wing into something that looked more comfortable and natural. She smoothed his black feathers and straightened the bone, letting the fracture heal at Her touch. She moved the healed wing until it mirrored the position of the other.

Then She pulled the coat off the limp figure. When She handed it back to Aziraphale, there was no sign that there was ever that dark stain. She moved on to straightening and smoothing Crowley’s rumpled clothes. Everywhere that Her hands touched, blackened and burnt skin was left whole. The deep wound in his chest slowly vanished and the dark ichor faded from sight. And when She took his hands and moved them to rest on his stomach, holding them briefly in Her own before settling them in place, the damage disappeared.

Crowley was physically whole now, no longer torn and broken. It left his body looking more peaceful and comfortable. As if he was sleeping.

“Perhaps most would claim that demons are beyond My forgiveness, but as I said, he has always had more in common with humanity. Both of you. I made you both that way because I knew that you belonged on Earth and together,” She said, gently pulling the limp figure into Her arms and cradling his head against Her chest. As if he was a young child. “And even after six thousand years, he is still one of Mine. And it is time that I reclaim him as such.”

Long ago, She created the first humans and breathed Life into them. And before that, She created each and every angel. Even those that later Fell. From nothing, She created angels and gave them Life.

And when She leaned down, She once more breathed Life into the silent figure.

Aziraphale shivered; he hadn’t been near one of Her miracles in a long time. It was one thing to restore a suffocated dove to life within a few moments and quite another to breathe Life into demon’s corporeal body after his essence faded into nothing. It would be beyond what the angel could do; it was something that most angels would never _want_ to do. Watching her filled him with quiet awe.

 And he sensed Her doing something else at the same time. Like She was pulling together millions of tiny fragments and threads that had been scattered everywhere. Pulling them together and reweaving them. She was reforming something that had faded away. Reforming, reweaving, and recreating. He couldn’t explain what She was doing that felt different, because _something_ was vaguely different,[76] and it still felt faint and weak to his senses. But Aziraphale knew that he could sense… apples, curiosity, vibrant plants, mischief, and… _Crowley_.

His chest rose slightly as the Breath of Life poured into him, filling his lungs with Her power, before falling once more. For a moment, nothing more seemed to happen. He remained perfectly still as She passed him carefully to a quietly hopeful Aziraphale. Silent, still, and pale as before.[77] Then he slowly took a breath on his own.

 

* * *

 

The first thing that he felt, breaking through the smothering mental fog and the odd sense of nothingness, was something warm, bright, wonderful, and terrifyingly overwhelming filling him. The sensation poured into him, pressing against and filling every part of his body and true self.[78] It was too much. Too strong and far too intense. The feeling nearly crushed him under the force and weight of it all. He could barely grasp a sense of self without something else trying to drown him. The warm, bright, and powerful force pouring into him felt good, but it was too much. He couldn’t contain even a fraction of it. He couldn’t—

Then the warm brightness stopped and he could let most of it pour right back out, letting the overwhelming pressure ease. He didn’t have to hold it anymore. That was a relief for him and his confused thoughts.

He didn’t hurt. Why didn’t he hurt? He remembered everything hurting. He remembered…

He didn’t hurt, but he didn’t feel exactly right either. He felt off. Like he didn’t fit inside his body correctly anymore. Like his skin was too loose in some places and too tight in others. Something was different in a way that he couldn’t describe. Maybe the warm brightness stretched him out too much. Or maybe some of it still remained in him, leaving him almost too full.

The bright, warm, and terrifying force that had lingered near him pulled away further, replaced by something soft and achingly familiar. Familiar enough to spark six thousand years of memories and emotions in an instant. The suddenness startled him into inhaling,[79] taking in the scent further.

 _Aziraphale_.

Prying open his eyes even a crack took effort. Everything looked blurry and too bright. But after a moment, his vision settled into focus and he could see a teary-eyed Aziraphale with the sun rising behind him.

“…Angel?”

Crowley’s quiet question[80] made Aziraphale gasp before pulling him up into an uncomfortably tight hug. Fingers dug into his clothes, holding him close. He stiffened in surprise, but being embraced by his angel felt nice enough that Crowley allowed himself to sink into the hug and cautiously move his arms around Aziraphale’s lower back. Crowley rested his head comfortably on the other’s shoulder, folding his wings against his back as his thoughts struggled to catch up a little.

It didn’t hurt. Why? He remembered so much pain, sharp and burning. His wing… His hands… His _chest_ … He didn’t understand. Nothing hurt, but he remembered how badly it did. He remembered so much pain, exhaustion, and trying to focus on Aziraphale’s voice, scent, and touch as everything seemed to fade away.

Crowley couldn’t understand what happened. He knew that he shouldn’t have ever woken up.

Aziraphale was shaking slightly, whispering muffled words that sounded like thanks into Crowley’s shoulder. A shoulder that seemed to be growing damp. His angel was crying. Crowley tightened his grip, faintly noticing that his hands were intact and that he could feel them even though he remembered them being scorched to the bone. After a moment, the angel’s wings moved, engulfing and sheltering Crowley protectively.

“Are you okay, angel?” he asked quietly.

Somewhere between a strained chuckle and a smothered sob, Aziraphale asked, “Am _I_ okay? What about you? You were… You…”

“I’m fine. I’m here, Aziraphale. Not going anywhere.”

Crowley took a deep breath. He knew his angel’s scent better than anyone. He knew Aziraphale’s aura. He knew his essence. He knew it with the familiarity that could only be gained by thousands of years of loving someone even when he didn’t truly realize what he was feeling. And in that moment, he needed the comfort it provided because part of him kept whispering that he wasn’t supposed to be there anymore and reassuring himself of the angel’s presence somehow felt grounding.

But he seemed to sense something new within the familiar scent. Something that he couldn’t identify. But it was bright, soft, warm, and nice. It seemed to roll off the angel in waves. And there was so much of it. Whatever it was, he liked it more than he could describe. Crowley wanted to bask in the comforting warmth like he might sun himself on a smooth rock.

Aziraphale’s arms hugged him close. His wings were folded around Crowley. Even his aura seemed to wrap around him. The angel was embracing him in every way possible. Holding Crowley tightly as if he could disappear at any moment. An understandable fear, but one that Crowley wanted to ease.

Slowly, the slight shaking fading away and his relieved tears drying, Aziraphale’s grip loosened and he leaned back a little. His wings remained around them. And with that small amount of distance, they could look each other in the face.

When he met Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale paused. He then blinked and briefly frowned in confusion. But before Crowley could ask what was wrong, he shook his head and smiled. A relieved, thankful, and soft smile. A smile without the haunted look in his eyes that he had earlier when the angel realized that he couldn’t heal Crowley’s injuries without making things worse. It was a real smile and one that Crowley found himself returning without really noticing.

Aziraphale’s wings shifted a little with their slight change of position, letting him mantle and shelter Crowley more comfortably. One hand curled around the back of Crowley’s head, fingers burying into his hair and pulling him gently forward until the two man-shaped beings were resting their foreheads against each other. Aziraphale’s other hand found Crowley’s and pulled it against his chest, cradling it close.

Neither of them were necessarily tactile by nature. Humans were a tactile species, always seeking out some form of physical contact. Depending on the time period or location, even a simple greeting could include anything from a handshake to a hug to a kiss to the cheek. Angels[81] weren’t inherently tactile and touchy-feely. Or at least, most of them would never admit it. They firmly believed that they were supposed to be above wanting such things. But right now, Aziraphale and Crowley couldn’t help clinging to each other.

Only later, after they climbed to their feet and untangled themselves, after they left the partially-destroyed village,[82] and after they made it back across the ocean and returned to the comforts of the bookshop, did Aziraphale mention what made him pause. Only later would he tell Crowley about his eyes, prompting some confused and increasingly panicked examinations in a mirror, accusations towards the Almighty over unexpected meddling, extraordinarily vast amounts of alcohol, attempts by Aziraphale to sooth a thoroughly freaked out Crowley, and eventual acceptance that anything was better than nonexistence.[83] And only later did Crowley realize what he was sensing from Aziraphale wasn’t new; it was merely something that demons couldn’t detect.

But what happened now was the two of them remained kneeling on the ground, foreheads pressed together as they focused on nothing except each other’s presence. They stayed in that close and intimate position for some time, wrapped in Aziraphale’s wings as the morning sun warmed the white feathers. They stayed like that, trying not to think about what they nearly lost and simply being thankful.

Eventually, however, the quiet calm would have to be broken by something. And Crowley never stopped asking questions.

“Angel, what happened to your wings?” His free hand brushed against the feathers softly. “They’re a mess. Is… is that _Hastur goo?_ ”

And despite how morbid it might be, Crowley’s absolutely grossed out tone startled Aziraphale into a nervous giggle. That set Crowley off with a similar chuckle of his own. And once he was laughing, the angel started laughing in earnest; the whole thing proved to be contagious. The two of them started laughing in a slightly hysterical manner, nearly falling over from the effort.

But even as they sat there in the rubble, giggling like a pair of lunatics in the morning sun, Aziraphale kept a hold of Crowley’s hand.

 

* * *

 

72 Though, Aziraphale long suspected not _quite_ as many souls as originally intended, if a certain demon’s remarks about children and some of the quiet whispering he thought that he heard in the lower sections of the ark hinted at anything. [ ↑ ]

73 That nearly happened during one of his earliest visits to the Americas. It was an awkward time all around. Not to mention the rather embarrassing welcome that Crowley received. A serpent with feathers made quite the impression with the locals. Aziraphale didn’t approve of the impersonation, but the end result was Quetzalcoatl becoming known for _not_ wanting human sacrifices and to actually disapprove of them. As far as the angel was concerned, less death was always preferable. [ ↑ ]

74 And to be fair, humans were mostly the ones responsible for preventing the end times. Anathema and Newton stopped the mechanical forces while Adam and his friends dealt with the supernatural ones. Aziraphale and Crowley only aided and supported Adam at a key moment as the child faced those who refused to accept his right to choose. And they provided Heaven and Hell easier targets to blame. But She knew that now was not the time to mention such technicalities to Her angel. [ ↑ ]

75 He barely noticed the pain in his leg easing, the deep cut healing. [ ↑ ]

76 If She was going to fix what had been broken, there was no reason why She could not undo past damage as well. Like reweaving a sweater without the accumulated tears, the moth-eaten holes, and the spots nearly worn all the way through the fabric. And perhaps adding back in a few stray strands that were yanked out long ago. [ ↑ ]

77 Because while Crowley may not have invented the concept of being dramatic, he certainly perfected the art. And the first rule of drama is “timing is everything.” [ ↑ ]

78 While also bringing to his attention that, yeah, he _did_ have a form and an existence, because apparently that’s something that had recently slipped his mind. [ ↑ ]

79 Breathing was a thing. He nearly forgot about that. Even if he didn’t technically need to breathe, human-shaped bodies tended to come with survival instincts that were happier when they were allowed to do human things like that. [ ↑ ]

80 Barely a question. Just a single word. But one filled with so much meaning. [ ↑ ]

81 And thus, demons. [ ↑ ]

82 The remaining inhabitants receiving some parting miracles to protect them as much as possible because after everything, Aziraphale would _punch_ Gabriel in the face if he complained about excessive miracles. [ ↑ ]

83 Not to mention that discovering what happened would probably terrify Heaven and Hell into leaving them alone for centuries as they tried to figure out what it meant. The thought of the looks on Gabriel and Beelzebub’s faces went a long way towards helping Crowley accept the changes. He personally wanted to see if he could induce heart attacks in their corporations. [ ↑ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left, which should tie up all the loose ends (especially those concerning Newt and the prophecies).


	5. The Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to finish up this fic. Just tying up loose ends and such. Thanks so much for sticking with me through this. It was fun.

_The Guardian of the Eastern Gate will return to hys shoppe of books. And with hym will come the Demon Who Did Not Truly Rise, But Was Dragged Up By The Scruff of Hys Neck. For the Serpent will be a demon nor the Serpent no more. He will be gifted a second chance out of loyalty, trust, and love for the principality. It will only take the two fools until the near End of Times to speak of it. Learn from their mistakes, Mr. Pulsifer. If thou cares for Anathema, speak with her._

Newt took a slow breath and set the parchment back down with the rest of the pages. He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up at random angles. After a few minutes, he stood up from the edge of the bed.

He collected a small box from his sock drawer. Then Newt picked up the stack of prophecies. He got the message, Agnes. He didn’t have any more excuses. He’d even spoken to Anathema’s mother, a woman who somehow managed to seem more sensible and intimidating than her daughter. It was time.

Newt found Anathema in the garden, working on a project involving her crystals, a compass, and a map.[84] Smiling, he took a moment to watch her. From her round glasses to her messy bun to her blue dress, she looked beautiful as she concentrated. He didn’t really understand half of what she was talking about when she discussed magic and witch things, but he loved how she lit up when she tried to explain it and he was willing to try to learn.

There was a reason that his mother described him as “smitten” the first time that he described Anathema.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, causing Anathema to look up.

Her eyes paused briefly on the pages in his arms, frowning momentarily, before moving up to his face. She raised an eyebrow over the edges of her glasses. But she slowly gave a nod, silently asking him to continue.

“Well, I actually want to _ask_ you something, and you can say ‘no’ or ‘not yet’ or ‘maybe someday’ or even ‘never,’ because I really don’t want you to do anything unless _you_ want to and not because someone else told you that you _had_ to or you think that you have to do it,” he rambled nervously, glancing down at his shoes a few times during his clumsy speech, “but I wouldn’t feel right asking if I didn’t tell you something important first.” Newt bit his bottom lip as he shifted the stack of parchment enough to free one hand, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I know that you didn’t want to live your life following prophecies anymore. And I wanted to respect that. But I also wanted to be honest and tell you everything. And when I found another copy of Agnes’s new prophecies, I should have told you immediately. I really wanted to. But she left a message telling me not to tell you until you wouldn’t burn them again or something and it seemed like a bad idea for me not to listen to her. Mostly because she creeps me out sometimes.”

Anathema listen silently, her expression one of subtle surprise.[85] But she wasn’t interrupting, which Newt took as a positive sign. Taking a deep breath, he continued forward.

“But I don’t like keeping secrets from you, Anathema. Especially not about something this important. It’s not right keeping secrets from people you love.” He held out the collection of prophecies towards her. “You don’t have to read them or follow them. But at least you know about them now. I wanted you to know about her prophecies before I asked you…”

Newt trailed off as she took the offered stack of parchment from him. One sheet was crooked and stuck out from the others. Anathema tugged it free and quietly read the prophecy, Newt leaning over to do the same.

_The boy may be a fool, but tis an honest fool. What thou will decide, I shall not reveal. Tis a matter of the heart, Anathema. Thou must find your path without my guidance. But hys offer will be true and so too will be hys love._

“What offer?” asked Anathema as Newt’s face grew hot.

He wondered if Agnes knew how frustrating it was to try and surprise someone when she was snooping and gossiping through time.[86] But he was thankful that she remained at least a little vague. Newt was insanely nervous, but he could at least do this much himself instead of having a long-dead witch ask the question for him.

His fingers closed on the small box in his pocket. His face was bright red, his palms sweaty, and his stomach seemed to contain an entire flock of butterflies. But this was worth it. _She_ was worth it.

“She meant this,” he said, pulling out the small box as he sank down on one knee.

A quiet gasp slipped out of her as he opened it. Even with his new job in Tadfield[87] and still technically drawing some income from his unusual career as a witchfinder,[88] Newt didn’t really have a large amount of money. He couldn’t afford to buy her a ring. At least not one that didn’t come from inserting coins into a little machine with prizes like plastic jewelry, bouncy balls, and bubble gum. But at least one short conversation with his mother provided a solution.

The tiny box held an old family ring that had been passed down for over a century. It was a little plain in style and it was made before diamond rings for brides became standard. But Newt hoped that she would like it anyway. The small emerald, a dark blue-green shade, seemed prettier in his opinion than a clear stone. And an antique wedding ring seemed more her style than something more modern.

Or maybe, Newt worried, he was making excuses because he couldn’t get her something nicer.

“Emerald,” she said quietly. “They call it the Stone of Successful Love.”[89]

“Does that mean… you accept?” asked Newt cautiously.

Smiling shyly, she said, “You haven’t really asked me yet, now have you?”

Blushing and ducking his head, Newt managed to stammer his way through the question. And when she gave her answer, he wobbled as light-headedness struck and he could barely slip the ring on her finger from shaking hands. The following kiss went a little smoother.

 

* * *

 

The wedding wasn’t intended to be a big affair. Newt didn’t exactly have a large family with dozens of cousins, aunts, and uncles who would show up just for a chance at some free cake. And Anathema’s relatives were mostly in another country. And over the months where they talked about what they wanted, a small and intimate wedding seemed to fit them better. Nothing fancy or expensive and certainly not crowded with people that they barely knew. Their discussions settled on a small guest list, an outdoor wedding, and having Pepper’s mother officiate the ceremony.[90] Mrs. Pulsifer seemed surprised that they weren’t going for something more traditional, but considering some of their guests, it seemed wise to keep the event clear of churches and priests.

Almost everyone invited tried to pitch in a little. Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale were determined to help, arranging chairs for the event in the field. They created a short aisle leading to a spot under a tree for the actual wedding.[91] The parents, who mostly seemed amused and accepting of their children essentially adopting Anathema as “their witch” because she seemed like such a nice young lady to go along with their “game” and seemed like a fairly decent role model, similarly did their best to be neighborly. Brian’s parents volunteered to provide a cake while Mr. and Mrs. Wensleydale rented some tables that could be setup afterwards for the casual reception. In addition to officiating, Pepper’s mother brought some music to play for the ceremony and after. The Youngs agreed to keep an eye on Jasmine Cottage during the honeymoon. The various ways that they offered to help did indeed make things go easier.

Other than Them and their parents, there were only a few other people included. Mrs. Pulsifer would have a front row view during the ceremony while Anathema’s mother would be on the other side of the aisle. Shadwell and Madame Tracy accepted their invitation; she eagerly chatting with everyone while Shadwell performed his normal interrogations.[92] Newt felt obligated to invite his new boss and his family, but they politely declined. And that left the last and the most unusual pair of guests on the list.

Who were apparently running a bit behind with their drive from London.

Anathema smoothed out her cream-colored wedding dress. She didn’t know if it was luck, fate, or having the former Anti-Christ involved, but it was the ideal day for a wedding. Sunny, warm, and with several birds singing. Adam and Them were chatting about what alien weddings might be like while the adults had far less interesting conversations. And in his tuxedo, looking completely nervous and happy, Newt stood under the tree while Shadwell shared all his so-called relationship “advice.”

“He loves you.”

Anathema glanced over at her mother. She married into the family, so she wasn’t one of Agnes’s direct descendants, but she did dabble a bit when it came to witchcraft. It was how she met her husband, Anathema’s now-deceased father. Shared interests and perhaps some hints from Agnes directing the man towards his destiny. Her knowledge of magic made it easier for her to adapt to a family that followed the prophecies of a long-dead witch.

"Every time he looks at you,” her mother continued, “his aura shows the sweetest shade of pink. I don’t think you could find anyone crazier for you than that awkward boy.”

Her mother was right. Newt typically had a practical tan aura,[93] though just like everyone, different emotions could introduce other colors to the primary one. And that soft shade of pink typically meant love and affection. And every time that he glanced over her and saw Anathema in her wedding dress, that warm shade bloomed briefly before Shadwell distracted him again.

The sight warmed Anathema and reassured her that this was the right decision. Despite addressing the letter in a way to hint that she and Newt would be married, this was not because of what Agnes Nutter told her. He told her every step of the way that it needed to be her choice and no one else’s. That she didn’t have to follow what destiny or prophecies commanded anymore. She’d made the right decision on her own. He loved her and she loved him enough to spend the rest of their lives together. Lives that no longer had the End of Times looming over them. Lives that they would choose for themselves.

It was part of the reason that she and Newt decided to hyphenate their names together. It was a small act of rebellion, but she would not be the “Mrs. Pulsifer” that was foretold. They would be Mr. and Mrs. Pulsifer-Device.

Future generations could decide if they wanted to read the newer prophecies or not for themselves.

“And who are we still waiting for, Anathema?” asked her mother. “I think you said… a Mr. Fell?”

As Anathema struggled to find a way to explain that they’d invited a rebellious angel and demon pair, her explanations about how the Apocalypse was stopped in the end being a bit sparse on the identities of a few of the more supernatural members since she didn’t want to worry her mother,[94] the roar of an approaching engine and the lyrics of “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” filled the air. A Bentley came to a screeching halt on the side of the road bordering the field. A moment later, a familiar blond and a red-head in black that she hadn’t seen in a few months[95] climbed out of the vehicle.

“Sorry we’re late,” called Aziraphale. “We got a little turned around, I’m afraid.”

Smirking behind his shades, Crowley added, “That nosy man with the tiny dog seemed a bit nervous when he gave us directions. I think at least his subconscious remembers the last time I talked to him, even if he’s in denial.”

“What did you do, Crowley.”

“Nothing, angel. I needed directions to the airbase. I think the state of my car bothered him.”

He turned his attention towards Anathema as Aziraphale greeted her mother. Crowley looked over her wedding dress before giving a short nod of approval.

“Marriage in barely less than a year. How _did_ that happen? You never did say. Just some gossipy calls to Aziraphale and then, wait, what was that, wedding invitation through the mail, telling us to show up in the middle of a muddy field in Tadfield and try not to ruin our clothes in the mud? Seemed a bit sudden from our end of things, but not as fast as _some_ weddings back when people tended to frown on certain things happening outside of marriage, so it’s probably not because of that.”

Rolling her eyes briefly, she smiled and said, “No, I’m _not_ pregnant. This just felt like the right time for us. Besides, if you know that you found the right person, why wait?”

Crowley glanced towards his companion, who was still chatting rather animatedly with Anathema’s mother, and said quietly, “Because some people are worth waiting for.”

Anathema couldn’t help sneaking a look at their auras. As always, they looked brighter than the humans around them and a bit more colorful in general. And the bright flashes of pink from both of them, but especially in Crowley as he stared at Aziraphale with a rather soft expression, added further evidence to her suspicions about the exact nature of their relationship.

Then, she paused, noticing something odd.

After various visits, she had a relatively good idea of what their auras typically looked like. Aziraphale’s normal state was pale yellow and orange-yellow[96] with white sparks and hints of metallic gold that she rarely saw in ordinary humans. The bright pink portions of his aura were more generalized and pastel-like than with Crowley, but then angels were meant to be caring entities from what she’d read. Crowley’s aura had always been an even mixture of lavender and a clear forest green,[97] but with patches of muddy grey.

But one of them looked different. The muddy grey was missing from Crowley’s aura. And in its place was the same white sparks and metallic gold as she saw with the angel.

“Something’s changed,” she said. “You seem… better.”

Especially without that muddy grey shade. It was never a healthy color to see in someone’s aura. It could mean different things, but none of them were positive.

Smiling slyly, Crowley said, “Perceptive.” Reaching towards his sunglasses, he added, “And I appreciate you not having this at a church. Aziraphale kept talking about it being a nice and considerate gesture on your part. But its really not a problem now.”

He tilted his shades down just enough to peer over the top at her. And Anathema was forced to swallow a gasp. His eyes… They weren’t snake eyes. Still a golden-yellow shade, one that _maybe_ could be considered an oddly-bright shade of amber, but with round pupils. Other than the color, they nearly looked human.[98] Then he gave the stunned woman a wink before returning the sunglasses to their proper place.

“Now, I better drag Aziraphale to his chair or he’ll spend all afternoon talking about the dusty old book he acquired last week,” he continued. “And I believe that you have a former witchfinder to marry before he probably passes out from nerves.”

Anathema glances back towards the tree. And yes, Newt did look a bit paler than he did a few minutes ago. Maybe someone should go distract Shadwell. His “advice” seemed to be making things worse.

“Come on, angel,” said Crowley. “The sooner we get seated, the sooner you can try the cake.”

He took Aziraphale’s hand, the gesture as natural as if he’d been doing it for thousands of years, and sauntered over to see which side of the aisle that they were going to claim.

 

* * *

 

84 With Adam mostly suppressing his powers, she was hoping that she could sketch out a more accurate map of the surrounding ley lines. Or if she couldn’t manage that, Anathema figured that she could at least see how far his influence stretched now. Either would provide her with useful information. [ ↑ ]

85 Surprise and uncertainty were both common emotions for her now. It was an unavoidable result of trying live a regular life after letting prophecies guide her from birth. [ ↑ ]

86 She knew. But since she was forced to observe a future filled with lovesick fools who kept circling each other like particularly daft vultures, Agnes needed a way to amuse herself. Spying on those future couples and even occasionally playing matchmaker with prophecies gave her something to do between recording instructions about preventing the Apocalypse and her morning jog. [ ↑ ]

87 A few of the local family business tended to lean towards more traditional setups. Newt was surprised to find a job doing some bookkeeping for some people who preferred to keep all their records on physical paper rather than a computer. Adam like Newt and liking Anathema, who _also_ liked Newt, might have played a small and unconscious role in him finding his new job. [ ↑ ]

88 Between his part in the Apoca-Oops and because he _did_ find a witch, both Aziraphale and Crowley kept him on the payroll. Though neither of them mentioned to the young man that they were the ones funding the Witchfinder Army. [ ↑ ]

89 Emeralds were also said to embody unity, compassion, and unconditional love. Anathema also knew that emeralds were meant to enhance memory and mental clarity, increase focus and intent, and activate psychic abilities and open one up to clairvoyance. Newt couldn’t have chosen anything more appropriate for a witch if he tried. [ ↑ ]

90 Another remnant from her time at a hippie commune like her daughter’s full name “Pippin Galadriel Moonchild” was that she could perform legal marriages; she thought it was a good idea for someone at the commune to be able to officiate even in a community that focused on free love. She promised Anathema that there would be less drumming and more people wearing shoes than the last wedding she performed. [ ↑ ]

91 June was too early for fruit, but the tree was indeed an apple tree. Because the potential symbolism was too powerful to escape. [ ↑ ]

92 Most reacted to his questions with confusion and discomfort. Mrs. Device answered “seven” and grinned smugly when he freaked out for a full minute, the man turning a few interesting different colors. [ ↑ ]

93 Which indicated that someone was analytical, logical, methodical, detail-oriented, not a risk-taker, and who valued long-term commitment. [ ↑ ]

94 Not to mention that her mother would be horrified to hear that she burned Agnes’s other prophecies and refused to even read the second copy that Newt kept locked away in a trunk now. [ ↑ ]

95 Even planning for a simple wedding took up more of her free time than expected. [ ↑ ]

96 Hopeful, positive, and intelligent. [ ↑ ]

97 Highly imaginative with a knack for plants and nature. [ ↑ ]

98 Where once his physical form was something serpent-shaped that could look human-ish, it was now closer to being human-shaped that could sometimes look serpent-like instead. [ ↑ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we finish up this story (that was supposed to be finished in one chapter, back when I was optimistic). Hopefully I didn't disappoint anyone. And thanks again so much for reading.
> 
> On a different note, I may or may not have another idea creeping around the back of my head that I might write for this fandom eventually. One that I already know will be longer and will touch on the topic of Warlock, Adam, Them, and some ideas that I have bouncing around. But we'll just have to see what happens with that one.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious how I set my footnotes up, here is a [link](https://teekettle.tumblr.com/post/126920988304/live-example-my-ao3-skins-while-ao3-has-a) that I used as reference.


End file.
